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OF THE
UMIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
!;^•&4'^
:'"^.u'?:?.;;h.\.
DAYiD copperfield;
BY
CHAKLES DICKENS.
pi)ilai)£lpl)ia:
T. B. PETERSON, No. 102 CHESTNUT STREET.
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„,riVo^^^^'^^^»^
0
DAYID COPPERFIELD.
BY
CHARLES DICKENS.
("BOZ.")
WITH THIRTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS,
FROM DESIGNS BY H. K. BROWNE.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
pi]ilabcl|jl)ia:
T. B. PETERSON, NO. 102 CHESTNUT STREET.
V.J
4lSitct{onat£l2 Sm»cr<br1i
TO
THE HCN MPt. AND MES. RICHARD WATSON,
OF
^
ROCKINGHAM NORTHAMPTONSHIRE.
I 0 1 773 I
PEE F A C E.
I DO not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from
this Book, in the first sensations of having finished it, to
refer to it with the composure which this formal heading
would seem to require. My interest in it is so recent and
strong ; and my mind is so divided between pleasure and
regret — pleasure in the achievement of a long design,
regret in the separation from many companions — that I
am in danger of wearying the reader whom I love, with
personal confidences, and private emotions.
Besides which, all that I could say of the Story, to any
purpose, I have endeavoured to say in it.
It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know, how
sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the end of a two-years'
imaginative task ; or how an Author feels as if he were
dismissing some portion of himself into the shadowy world,
when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from
him for ever. Yet, I have nothing else to tell ; unless,
indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment
Xxii PREFACE.
Still) that no one can ever believe this Narrative, in the
reading, more than I have believed it in the wanting.
Instead of looking back, therefore, I will look forward.
I cannot close this Volume more agreeably to myself, than
with a hopeful glance towards the time when I shall again
put forth my two green leaves once a month, and with a
faithful remembrance of the genial sun and showers that
nave fallen on these leaves of David Copperfield, and made
me happy.
London,
October, 1850.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTEB
Ml«l
I. — I am born 29
IL — I observe 33
HE.— I have a Change 60
IV.— I fall into Disgrace ^7
V. — I am sent away from Home 97
VI. — I enlarge my Circle of Acquaintaince 116
VIL— My "first half at Salem House 125
VIII. — My Holidays. Especially one happy Afternoon 144
IX. — I have a memorable Birthday 160
X. — I become neglected, and am provided for 173
XL — I begin Life on my own Account, and don't like it 195
XIL — Liking Life on my own Account no better, I form a great Reso-
lution • 211
XIIL— The Sequel of my Resolution 221
XrV. — My Aunt makes up her Mind about me » 242
XV. — I make another Beginning 259
XVI. — I am a New Boy in more senses than one 269
XVIL— Somebody turns up 291
XVIIL— A Retrospect 309
XIX. — I look about me, and make a Discovery 317
XX.— Steerforth's Home 335
(23)
24 CONTENTS.
CHAPTBB PAGB
XXL— Little Em'ly 344
XXIL — Some old Scenes, and some new People 365
XXIIL — I corroborate Mr. Dick, and choose a Profession 388
XXrV.— My first Dissipation 404
XXV.— Good and bad. Angels 413
XXVL— I fall into Captivity ^ 433
XXVn.— Tommy Traddles 450
XXVnL— Mr. Micawber's Gauntlet 461
XXIX. — I visit Steerforth at his Home, again 482
XXX.— A Loss 490
XXXL — A greater Loss , 499
XXXIL — The beginning of a long Journey 610
XXXnL— BUssful 630
XXXIV. — My Aunt astonishes me , 648
XXXV.— Depression 658
XXXVI. — Enthusiasm 679
XXXVIL— A little Cold Water 697
XXXVni. — A Dissolution of Partnership 606
XXXIX.— Wickfield and Heep 624
XL.— The Wanderer , 644
XLI. — Dora's Aunts 654
XLn.— Mischief. 672
XLUL — Another Retrospect 693
XLIV. — Our Housekeeping , 702
XLV.— Mr. Dick fulfils my Aunfs Prediction 718
XLVL— Intelligence 735
XLVIL— Martha 750
XL VIIL— Domestic 762
XLIX. — I am involved in Mystery 774
L. — Mr. Peggotty's Dream comes true 788
LI. — The Beginning of a longer Journey ..„ 799
CONTENTS. 25
OHAPTEB VAQ^
LII. — I assist at an Explosion 818
LIU. — Another Retrospect 839
LIV. — Mr. Micawber*s Transactions 846
LV. — Tempest 862
LVI. — The new Wound, and the old 875
LVIL— The Emigrants 882
LVIIL— Absence 894
LIX.— Return 901
LX.— Agnes 918
LXI. — I am shown two interesting Penitents 923
LXn. — A Light shines on my waj 932
LXIIL— A Visitor 950
XrV.— A last Retrospect 959
LIST OF ILLUSTKATIONS.
TO PACE PABB
OUE PEW AT CHURCH 45
I AM HOSPITABLY EECEIVED BY MR. PEGGOTTY 64
MY FRIENDLY WAITER AND 1 101
MY MUSICAL BREAKFAST. . . 110
8TEERF0RTH AND MR. MELL 133
CHANGES AT HOME 146
MRS. GUMMIDGE CASTS A DAMP ON OUR DEPARTURE 185
MY MAGNIFICENT ORDER AT THE PUBLIC HOUSE 202
I MAKE MYSELF KNOWN TO MY AUNT 233
THE MOMENTOUS INTERVIEW ., 251
I RETURN TO THE DOCTOR'S AFTER THE PARTY 290
SOMEBODY TURNS UP 301
MY FIRST FALL IN LIFE 329
WE WERE UNEXPECTEDLY AT MR. PEGGOTTY's FIRESIDE 357
I MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF MISS MOWCHER 378
MARTHA 385
URIAH PERSISTS IN HOVERINQ NEAR US AT THE DINNER PARTY... 425
I FALL INTO CAPTIVITY 439
WE ARE DISTURBED IN OUR COOKERY 466
I FIND MR. BARKIS "GOING OUT WITH THE TIDE," 497
MR. PEGGOTTY AND MRS. STEERFORTH 523
MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME 554
MR. WICKFIFLD AND HIS PARTNER WAIT UPON MY AUNT 574
(27)
28 LIST OP ILLUSTRATIONS.
10 FAOB PAOI
MR. MICAWBER DELIVERS SOME VALEDICTORY REMARKS 695
TRADDLES MAKES A FIGURE IN PARLIAMENT, AND I REPORT HIM . 607
THE WANDERER 646
TRADDLES AND I, IN CONFERENCE WITH THE MISSES SPENLOW . . , 659
I AM MARRIED 699
OUR HOUSEKEEPING 709
MR. DICK FULFILS MY AUNT'S PREDICTION 726
THE RIVER 752
MR. PEGGOTTY'S dream COMES TRUE 797
RESTORATION OP MUTUAL CONFIDENCE BETWEEN MR. AND MRS.
mcAWBER 836
MY child-wife's OLD COMPANION 845
I AM THE BEARER OF EVIL TIDINGS 877
THE EMIGRANTS 882
I AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS 938
A STRANGER CALLS TO SEE ME 950
THE
PERSONAL HISTORY AND EXPERIENCE
OF
DAVID COPPERFIELD THE YOUNGER.
CHAPTER I.
1 AM BORN.
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or
whether that station will be held by any body else, these pages
must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I
record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on
a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the
clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.
In consideration of the day and hour of my birth, it was
declared by the nurse, and by some sage women in the neigh-
borhood, who had taken a lively interest in me several months
before there was any possibility of our becoming personally
acquainted ; first, that I was destined to be unlucky in life ; and
secondly, that I was privileged to see ghosts and spirits — both
these gifts inevitably attaching, as they believed, to all unlucky
infants, of either gender, born towards the small hours on a
Friday night.
I need say nothing here, on the first head, because nothing
can show better than my history whether that prediction was
verified or falsified by the result. On the second branch of the
question, I will only remark, that unless I ran through that part
of my inheritance while I was still a baby, I have not come into
it yet. Butldonot at all complain of having been kept out of
this property ; and if any body else should be in the present
enjoyment of it, he is heartily welcome to keep it.
(29)
80 DAVID C 0 P r K R F I E L D ,
I was born wiih a caul, which was advertised for sale, in the
newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether sea-
going people were short of money about that time, or were short
of faith and preferred cork-jackets, I don't know ; all I know
is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was from
an attorney connected with the bill-broking business, who
offered two pounds in cash, and the balance in Sherry, but de-
clined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher bargain.
Consequently the advertisement was withdrawn at a dead loss—
for as to sherry, my poor dear mother's own sherry was in the
market then — and ten years afterwards the caul was put up in
a raffle down in our part of the country to fifty members at
half-a-crown a head, the winner to spend five shillings. I was
present myself, and I remember to have felt quite uncomforta-
ble and confused, at a part of myself being disposed of in that
way. The caul was won, I recollect, by an old lady with a
hand-basket, who, very reluctantly, produced from it the stipu-
lated five shillings, all in halfpence, and twopence halfpenny
short ; as it took an immense time and a great waste of arith-
metic to endeavor without any effect to prove to her. It is a
fact which will be long remembered as remarkable down there,
that she was never drowned, but died triumphantly in bed, at
ainety-two. I have understood that it was, to the last, her
proudest boast, that she never had been on the water in her life,
except upon a bridge ; and that over her tea (to which she was
extremely partial) she, to the last, expressed her indignation at
the impiety of mariners and others who had the presumption to
go " meandering " about the world. It was in vain to repre-
sent to her that some conveniences, tea perhaps included, re-
sulted from this objectionable practice. She always returned
with greater emphasis and with an instinctive knowledge of the
strength of her objection, " Let us have no meandering."
Not to meander, myself, at present, I will go back to my birth.
I was born at Blunderstone, in Suffolk, or "thereby," as
they say in Scotland. I was a posthumous child. My father's
eyes had closed upon the light of this world six months, when
mine opened on it. There is something strange to rne, even
DAVID COrrER FIELD. 81
now, in the reflection that he never saw me, and something
stranger yet in the shadowy remembrance that I have of my
first childish associations with his white grave-stone in the
churchyard, and of the indefinable compassion I used to feel for it
lying out alone there in the dark night, when our little parlor
was warm and bright with fire and candle, and the doors of our
house were — almost cruelly it seemed to me sometimes — bolted
and locked against it.
An aunt of my father's, and consequently a great-aunt of
mine, of whom I shall have more to relate by and by, was
the principal magnate of our family. Miss Trotwood, or Miss
Betsey, as my poor mother always called her, when she suffi-
ciently overcame her dread of this formidable personage to men-
tion her at all (which was seldom), had been married to a hus-
band younger than herself, who was very handsome, except in
the sense of the homely adage, " handsome is, that handsome
does " — for he was strongly suspected of having beaten Miss
Betsey, and even of having once, on a disputed question of sup-
plies, made some hasty but determined arrangements to throw
her out of a two pair of stairs' window. These evidences of
an incompatibility of temper induced Miss Betsey to pay him off,
and effect a separation by mutual consent. He went to India
with his capital, and there, according to a wild legend in our
family, he was once seen riding on an elephant, in company
with a Baboon ; but I think it must have been a Baboo — or a
Begum. Any how, from India tidings of his death reached
liome, within ten years. How they affected my aunt, nobody
knew ; for immediately upon the separation, she took her
maiden name again, bought a cottage in a hamlet on the sea-
coast a long way off", established herself there as a single
woman, with one servant, and was understood to live secluded,
ever afterwards, in an inflexible retirement.
My father had once been a favorite of hers, I believe, but
she was mortally aflfronted by his marriage, on the ground that
my mother was " a wax doll." She had never seen my
mother, but she knew her to be not yet twenty. My father
and Miss Betsey never met again. He was double my mo-
32 DAVID COrrERFIELD.
Iher's age when he married, and of but a delicate constitution
He died a year afterwards, and, as I have said, six months
before I came into the world.
This was the state of matters, on the afternoon of what
I may be excused for calling, tha^ eventful and important Fri-
day. I can make no claim therefore to have known, at that
time, how matters stood, or to have any remembrance, founded
upon the evidence of my own senses, of what follows.
My mother was sitting by the fire, but poorly in health, and
very low in spirits, looking at it through her tears, and de-
sponding heavily about herself and the fatherless little stranger
who was already welcomed by some grosses of prophetic pins
in a drawer up-stairs, to a world not at all excited on the sub-
ject of his arrival ; my mother, I say, was sitting by the fire,
that bright, windy March afternoon, very timid and sad, and
very doubtful of ever coming alive out of the trial that was be-
fore her; when, lifting her eyes as she dried them, to the
window opposite, she saw a strange lady coming up the garden.
My mother had a sure foreboding at the second glance, that-
it was Miss Betsey. The setting sun was glowing on the
strange lady, over the garden-fence, and she came walking up
to the door with a fell rigidity of figure and composure of coun-
tenance that could have belonged to nobody else.
When she reached the house she gave another proof of her
identity. My father had often hinted that she seldom conduct-
ed herself like any ordinary Christian ; and now, instead of
ringing the bell, she came and looked in at that identical win-
dow, pressing the end of her nose against the glass to that
extent, that my poor dear mother used to say it became per-
fectly flat and white in a moment.
She gave my mother such a turn, that I have always been
convinced I am indebted to Miss Betsey for having been born
on a Friday.
My mother had left her chair in her agitation, and gone be-
hind it in the corner. Miss Betsey, looking round the ro^m,
slowly and inquiringly, began on the other side, and carried
her eyes on, like a Saracen's Head in a Dutch clock, until
DAVIT) COPPERFIELD. 83
they reached my mother. Then she made a frown and a ges.
ture to my mother, like one who is accustomed to be obeyed, to
come and open the door. My mother went.
" Mrs. David Copperfield, I thinks" said Miss Betsey ; the
emphasis referring, perhaps, to my mother's mourning weeds,
and her condition.
" Yes," said my mother, faintly.
*' Miss Trotwood," said the visitor. " You have heard of
her, I dare say ?"
My mother answered she had had that pleasure. And she
had a disagreeable consciousness of not appearing to imply
that it had been an overpowering pleasure.
" Now you see her," said Miss Betsey. My mother bent
her head, and begged her to walk in.
They went into the parlor my mother had come from — the
fire in the best room on the other side of the passage not being
lighted : not having been lighted, indeed, since my father's
funeral — and when they wece both seated, and Miss Betsey
said nothing, my mother, after vainly trying to restrain herself,
began to cry.
" Oh tut, tut, tut !" said Miss Betsey, in a hurry. " Don*t
do that ! Come, come !"
My mother couldn't help it notwithstanding, so she cried
until she had had her cry out.
" Take off your cap, child," said Miss Betsey, " and let me
see you."
My mother was too much afraid of her to refuse compliance
with this odd request, if she had any disposition to do so.
Therefore she did as she was told, and did it with such nervous
hands that her hair (whch was luxuriant and beautiful) fell all
about her face.
" Why, bless my heart !" exclaimed Miss Betsey. " You
are a very Baby !"
My mother was, no doubt, unusually youthful in appearance
even for her years ; she hung her head, as if it were her fault,
poor thing, and said, sobbing, that indeed she was afraid she
was but a childish widow, and would be but a cliiltlish mother
84 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
if she ilwvjd. In a short pause which ensued, she had a fancy
that she telt Miss Betsey touch her hair, and that with no un-
gentle hand ; but, looking at her, in her timid hope, she found
that lady sitting with the skirt of her dress tucked up, her
hands folded on one knee, and her feet upon the fender, frown
ing at the fire.
"In the name of Heaven," said Miss Betsey, suddenly,
«' why Rookery ?"
" Do you mean the house, ma'am ?" asked my mother.
" Why Rookery ?"' said Miss Betsey. " Cookery would
have been more to the purpose, if you had had any practical
ideas of life, either of you."
" The name was Mr. Copperfield's choice," returned my
mother. " When he bought the house, he liked to think that
there were rooks about it."
The evening wind made such a disturbance just now, among
some tall old elm trees at the bottom of the garden, that neither
my mother nor Miss Betsey could forbear glancing that way.
As the elms bent to one another, like giants who were whisper-
ing secrets, and after a few seconds of such repose, fell into a
violent flurry, tossing their wild arms about, as if their late con-
fidences were really too wicked for their peace of mind, some
weather-beaten ragged old rooks' nests burdening their higher
branches, swung like wrecks upon a stormy sea.
*' Where are the birds ?" asked Miss Betsey.
" The ?" My mother had been thinking of something
else.
" The rooks — what has become of them ?" asked Miss Betsey.
" There have not been any since we have lived here," said
my mother. " We thought — Mr. Copperfield thought — it was
quite a large rookery, but the nests were very old ones, and
the birds have deserted them a long while."
" David Copperfield all over !" cried Miss Betsey. " David
Copperfield from head to foot ! Calls a house a rookery when
there's not a rook near it, and takes the birds on trust, because
be sees the nests !"
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 35
" Mr. Copperfield," returned my mother, " is dead, and if
you dare to speak unkindly of him to me "
My poor dear mother, I suppose, had some momentary in-
tention of committing an assault and battery upon my aunt,
who could easily have settled her with one hand, even if my
mother had been in far better training for such an encounter
than she was that evening. But it passed with the action of
rising from her chair ; and she sat down again very meekly,
and fainted.
When she came to hei^elf, or when Miss Betsey had restored
her, whichever it was, she found the latter standing at the
window. The twilight was by this time shading down into
darkness ; and dimly as they saw each other, they could not
have done that, without the aid of the fire.
" Well ?" said Miss Betsey, coming back to her chair, as if
she had only been taking a casual look at the prospect ; " and
when do you expect "
" I am all in a tremble !" faltered my mother. " I don't
know what's the matter. I shall die, I am sure !"
" No, no, no," said Miss Betsey. " Have some tea."
" Oh dear me, dear me, do you think it will do me any
good ?" cried my mother in a helpless manner.
" Of course it will," said Miss Betsey. "It's nothing but
fancy. What do you call your girl ?"
" I don't know that it will be a girl, yet ma'am," said my
mother innocently.
" Bless the Baby !" exclaimed Miss Betsey, unconsciously
quoting the second sentiment of the pincushion in the drawer
up stairs, but applying it to my mother instead of me. " I
don't mean that. I mean your servant-girl."
" Peggotty," said my mother.
" Peggotty," repeated Miss Betsey, with some indignation.
" Do you mean to say, child, that any human being has gone
into a Christian church, and got herself named Peggotty ?"
" It's her surname," said my mother, faintly. " Mr. Cop-
perfield called her by it, because her Christian name was the
36 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Here ! Peggotty !" cried Miss Betsey, opening the parlor
door. '• Tea. Your mistress is a little unwell. Don't dawdle.'*
Having issued this mandate with as much potentiality as if
she had been a recognized authority in the house ever since it
had been a house, and having looked out to confront the amazed
Peggotty coming along the passage with a candle at the sound
of a strange voice. Miss Betsey shut the door again, and sat
down as before : with her feet on the fender, the skirt of her
dress tucked up, and her hands folded on one knee.
" You were speaking about its being a girl," said Miss Bet-
sey. " I have no doubt it will be a girl. I have a presenti-
ment that it must be a girl. Now child, from the moment of
the birth of this girl — "
"Perhaps boy," my mother took the liberty of putting in.
" I tell you I have a presentiment that it must be a girl,"
returned Miss Betsey. " Don't contradict. From the moment
of this girl's birth, child, 1 intend to be her friend. I intend to
be her godmother, and I beg you'll call her Betsey Trotwood
Copperfield. There must be no mistakes in life with this
Betsey Trotwood. There must be no trifling with her affec-
tions, poor dear. She must be well brought up, and well
guarded from reposing any foolish confidences where they are
not deserved. I must make that my care."
There was a twitch of Miss Betsey's head, after each of
these sentences, as if her own old wrongs were working within
her, and she repressed any plainer reference to them by strong
constraint. So my mother suspected at least, as she observed
her by the low glimmer of the fire : too much scared by Miss
Betsey, too uneasy in herself, and too subdued and bewildered
altogether, to observe any thing very clearly, or to know what
to say.
"And was David good to you, child ?" asked Miss Betsey,
when she had been silent for a little while, and these motions ot
her head had gradually ceased. " Were you comfortable
together ?"
" We were very happy," said my mother. "Mr. Copper
field was only too good to me."
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 37
" What, he spoilt you, I suppose ?" returned Mi«8 Betsey.
" For being quite alone and dependent on myself in this rough
World again, yes, I fear he did indeed," sobbed my another.
" Well ! Don't cry !" said Miss Betsey. " You were not
equally matched, child — if any two people can be equally
matched — and so I asked the question. You were an orphan,
weren't you ?"
"Yes."
" And a governess ?"
" I was nursery-governess in a family where Mr. Copper-
field came to visit. Mr. Copperfield was very kind to me, and
took a great deal of notice of me, and paid me a good deal of
attention, and at last proposed to me. And I accepted him.
And so we were married," said my mother simply.
" Ha ! poor Baby !" mused Miss Betsey, with her frown still
bent upon the fire. " Do you know any thing ?"
" I beg your pardon ma'am," faltered my mother.
" About keeping house, for instance," said Miss Betsey.
" Not much I fear," returned my mother. " Not so much
as I could wish. But Mr. Copperfield was teaching me — "
(*' Much he knew about it himself!" said Miss Betsey in a
parenthesis.)
— " And I hope I should have improved, being very anxious
to learn, and he very patient to teach, if the great misfortune
of his death" — my mother broke down again here, and could
get no farther.
" Well, well !" said Miss Betsey.
— " I kept my Housekeeping-Book regularly and balanced
it with Mr. Copperfield every night," cried my mother in ano-
ther burst of distress, and breaking down again.
" Well, well !" said Miss Betsey. " Don't cry any more."
— "And I am sure we never had a word of difference re-
specting it, except when Mr. Copperfield objected to my threes
and fives being too much like each other, or to my putting curly
tails to my sevens and nines," resumed my mother in anothei
burst, and breaking down again.
" You'll make yourself ill," said Miss Betsey, " and you
38 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
know that will not be good either for you or for my god-daugh.
ter. Come ! You mustn't do it !"
This argument had some share in quieting my mother, though
her increasing indisposition perhaps had a larger one. There
was an interval of silence, only broken by Miss Betsey's oc-
casionally ejaculating " Ha !" as she sat with her feet upon the
fender.
" David had bought an annuity for himself with his money,
I know," said she, by and by. " What did he do for you ?"
" Mr. Copperfield," said my mother, answering with some
difficulty, " was so considerate and good as to secure the rever-
sion of a part of it to me."
" How much ?" asked Miss Betsey.
" A hundred and five pounds a year," said my mother.
" He might have done worse," said my aunt.
The word was appropriate to the moment. My mother was
so much worse that Peggotty, coming in with the teaboard and
candles, and seeing at a glance how ill she was, — as Miss
Betsey might have done sooner if there had been light enough,
— conveyed her up stairs to her own room with all speed, and
immediately dispatched Ham Peggotty, her nephew, who had
been, for some days past, secreted in the house, unknown to my
mother, as a special messenger in case of emergency, to fetch
the nurse and Doctor.
Those allied powers were considerably astonished when they
arrived within a few minutes of each other, to find an unknown
lady of portentous appearance, sitting before the fire, with her
bonnet tied over her left arm. stopping her ears with jewellers'
cotton. Peggotty knowing nothing about her, and my mother
saying nothing about her, she was quite a Mystery in the par-
lor ; and the fact of her having a magazine of jewellers' cotton
in her pocket, and sticking the article in her ears in that way,
did not detract from the solemnity of her presence.
The Doctor having been up stairs and come down again, and
having satisfied himself, I suppose, that there was a probability
of this unknown lady and himself having to sit there, face to
face, for some hours, laid himself out to be polite and social.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 39
He was the meekest of his sex, the mildest of little men. He
sidled in and out of a room, to take up the less space. He walked
as softly as the Ghost in Hamlet — and more slowly. He
carried his head on one side, partly in modest depreciation of
himself, partly in modest propitiation of every body else. It is
nothing to say that he hadn't a word to throw at a dog. He
couldn't have thrcnvn a word at a mad dog. He might have
offered him one gently, or half a one, or a fragment of one ; for
he spoke as slowly as he walked ; but he wouldn't have been
rude to him, and he couldn't have been quick with him, for any
earthly consideration.
Mr. Chillip, looking mildly at my aunt, with his head on one
side, and making her a little bow, said, in allusion to the jewel-
lers' cotton, as he softly touched his left ear :
" Some local irritation, ma'am V
" What !" replied my aunt, pulling the cotton out of one ear
like a cork.
Mr. Chillip was so alarmed by her abruptness — as he told
my mother afterwards — that it was a mercy he didn't lose his
presence of mind. But he repeated, sweetly :
** Some local irritation, ma'am."
*' Npnsense !" replied my aunt, and corked herself again, at
one blow.
Mr. Chillip could do nothing after this, but sit and look at
her feebly, as she sat and looked at the fire, until he was called
up stairs again. After some quarter of an hour's absence, he
returned.
" Well ?" said my aunt, taking the rotten out of the ear
nearest to him.
*' Well ma'am," returned Mr. Chillip, ** we are — we are pro-
gressing slowly, ma'am,"
" Ba — a — ah !" said my aunt, with a perfect shake on the
contemptuous interjection. And corked herself, as before.
Really — really — as Mr. Chillip told my mother, he was al-
most shocked ; speaking in a professional point of view alone,
he was almost shocked. But he sat and looked at her, notwith-
standing, for nearly two hours, as she sat looking at the lire,
40 DAVID COPPERFIELD,
until he was again called out. After another absence, he again
returned.
" Well V said my aunt, taking out the cotton on that side,
again.
" Well ma'am," returned Mr. Chillip, " we are — we are pro-
gressing slowly, ma'am."
" Ya — a — ah !" said my aunt. With such a snarl at him,
that Mr. Chillip absolutely could not bear it. It was really
calculated to break his spirit, he said afterwards. He preferred
to go and sit upon the stairs, in the dark and a strong draught,
until he was again sent for.
Ham Peggotty, who went to the National school, and was a
very dragon at his catechism, and who may therefore be re-
garded as a credible witness, reported next day, that happening
to peep in at the parlor-door an hour after this, he was instantly
descried by Miss Betsey, then walking to and fro in a state of
agitation, and pounced upon before he could make his escape.
That there were now occasional sounds of feet and voices over-
head which he inferred the cotton did not exclude, from the cir-
cumstance of his evidently being clutched by the lady as a
victim on whom to expend her superabundant agitation when
the sounds were loudest. That, marching him constantly up
and down by the collar (as if he had been taking too much
laudanum), she, at those times, shook him, rumpled his hair,
made light of his linen, stopped his ears as if she confounded
them with her own, and otherwise touzled and maltreated him.
This was in part confirmed by his aunt, who saw him at half-
past twelve o'clock, soon after his release, and affirmed that he
was then as red as I was.
The mild Mr. Chillip could not possibly bear malice at such
a time, if at any time. He sidled into the parlor as soon as he
was at liberty, and said to my aunt in his meekest manner :
" Well, ma'am, I am happy to congratulate you."
" What upon ?" said my aunt sharply.
Mr. Chillip was fluttered again, by the extreme severity of
my aunt's manner ; so he made her a little bow and gave hef
a little smile, to mollify her.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 41
" Mercy on the man, what's he doing !" cried my aunt im-
patiently. " Can't he speak ?"
" Be calm my dear ma'am," said Mr. Chillip, in his softest
accents. " There is no longer any occasion for uneasiness,
ma'am. Be calm."
It has since been considered almost a miracle that my aunt
didn't shake him, and shake what he had to say, out of him,
by main force. She only shook her head at him, but in a way
that made him quail.
" Well ma'am," resumed Mr. Chillip, as soon as he had
courage, " I am happy to congratulate you. All is now over
ma'am, and well over."
During the five minutes or so that Mr. Chillip devoted to the
delivery of this oration, my aunt eyed him narrowly.
" How is she ?" said my aunt, folding her arms with her
bonnet still tied on one of them.
" Well ma'am, she will soon be quite comfortable, I hope,"
returned Mr. Chillip. " Quite as comfortable as we can ex-
pect a young mother to be, under these melancholy domestic
circumstances. There cannot be any objection to your seeing
hei presently, ma'am. It may do her good."
" And she. How is she .^" said my aunt sharply.
Mr. Chillip laid his head a little more on one side, and looked
at my aunt like an amiable bird.
" The baby," said my aunt. " How is she ?"
" Ma'am," returned Mr. Chillip, " I apprehended you had
known. It's a boy."
My aunt said never a word, but took her bonnet by the
strings, in the manner of a sling, aimed a blow at Mr. Chillip's
head with it, put it on bent, walked out, and never came back.
She vanished like a discontented fairy, or like one of those
supernatural beings, whom it was popularly supposed I was
entitled to see ; and never came back any more.
No. I lay in my basket, and my mother lay in her bed ;
but Betsey Trotwood Copperfield was for ever in the land ot
dreams and shadows, the tremendous region whence 1 had so
42 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
lately travelled ; and the light upon the window of our room,
shone out upon the earthly bourne of all such travellers, and
the mound above the ashes and the dust that once was he, wiin-
out whom I had never been.
CHAPTER II.
I OBSERVE.
The Arst <)Lj<«!rv^ .hat assun»e a distinct presence before me, as
I look far bacA, into the blank of my infancy, are my mother
with her pretty f^air snd youthful shape, and Peggotty with no
shape at all, and eyes so dark that they seemed to darken their
whole neighborhood in her face, and cheeks and arms so hard
and red that I wondered the birds didn't peck her in preference
to apples.
I believe I can remember thebe two at a little distance apart,
dwarfed to my sight by stooping down or kneeling on the floor,
and I going unsteadily from the one to the other. I have an
impression on my mind which I cannot distinguish from actual
remembrance, of the touch of Peggolty's fore-finger as she used
to hold it out to me, and of its being roughened by needlework,
like a pocket nutmeg-grater.
This may be fancy, though I think the memory of most of
us can go farther back into such times than many of us sup-
pose. Just as I believe the power of observation in numbers
of very young children to be quite wonderful for its closeness
and accuracy. Indeed, I think that most grown men who are
remarkable in this respect, may with greater propriety be said
not to have lost the faculty, than to have acquired it ; the
rather, as I generally observe such men to retain a certain
freshness, and gentleness, and capacity of being pleased, which
are also an inheritance they have preserved from their childhood.
I might have a misgiving that I am " meandering " in
stopping to say this, but that it brings me to remark that I build
these conclusions, in part upon my own experience of myself;
and if it should appear from any thing I may set down in this
narrative that I was a child of close observation, or that as a
man 1 have a strong memory of my childhood, I undoubtedly
lay claim to both of these characteristics.
4a
44 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Looking back, as I was saying, into the blank of my infancy,
the first objects I can remember as standing out by themselves
from a confusion of things, are my mother and Peggotty. What
else do I remember ? Let me see.
There comes out of the cloud, our house — not new to me,
but quite familiar, in its earliest remembrance. On the ground,
floor is Peggotty's kitchen, opening into a back yard ; with a
pigeon-house on a pole, in the centre, without any pigeons in
it ; a great dog-kennel in a corner, without any dog ; and a
quantity of fowls that look terribly tall to me, walking about,
in a menacing and ferocious manner. There is one cock who
gets upon a post to crow, and seems to take particular notice
of me as I look at him through the kitchen window, who makes
me shiver, he is so fierce. Of the geese outside the side-gate
who come waddlinjj after me with their long necks stretched
out when J go that way, I dream at night as a man environed
by wild beasts might dream of lions.
Here is a long passage — what an enormous perspective I
make of it ! — leading from Peggotty's kitchen to the front door.
A dark store-room opens out of it, and that is a place to be run
past at night ; for I don't know what may be among those tubs
and jars and old tea chests, when there is nobody in there with
a dimly burning light, letting a mouldy air come out at the door,
in which there is the smell of soap, pickles, pepper, candles, and
coffee, all at one whiff*. Then there are the two' parlors ; the
parlor in which we sit of an evening, my mother and I and
Peggotty — for Peggotty is quite our companion, when her work
is done and we are alone— and the best parlor where we sit on a
Sunday : grandly, but not so comfortably. There is something of
a doleful air about that room to me, for Peggotty has told me — I
don't know when, but apparently ages ago— about my father's
funeral, and the company having their black cloaks put on.
One Sunday night my mother reads to Peggotty and me in there,
how Lazarus was raised up from the dead. And I am so fright-
ened, that they are afterwards obliged to take me out of bed, and
show me the quiet churchyard out of the bedroom window, with
the dead all lying in their graves at rest, below the solemn moon.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 45
There is nothing half so green that I know any where, as the
grass of that churchyard ; nothing half so shady as its trees ;
nothing half so quiet as its tombstones. The sheep are feeding
there, when I kneel up, early in the morning, in my little bed
in a closet within my mother's room, to look out at it ; and 1
see the red light shining on the sun-dial, and think within my-
self, " Is the sun-dial glad, I wonder, that it can tell me the
time again ?"
Here is our pew in the church. What a high-backed pew!
With a window near it, out of which our house can be seen —
and is seen many times during the morning's service by Peg-
gotty, who likes to make herself as sure as she can that it's not
being robbed, or is not in flames. But though Peggotty's eye
wanders, she is much offended if mine does, and frowns to me,
as I stand upon the seat, that I am to look at the clergyman.
But I can't always look at him — 1 know him without that white
thing on, and I am afraid of his wondering why 1 stare so, and
perhaps stopping the service to inquire — and what am I do?
It's a dreadful thing to gape, but I must do something. I look
at my mother, but she pretends not to see me. I look at a boy
in the aisle, and he makes faces at me. I look at the sunlight
coming in at the open door through the porch, and there I see
a stray sheep — I don't mean a sinner, but mutton — half making
up his mind to come into the church. I feel that if I looked at
him any longer I might be tempted to say something out loud ;
and what would become of me then ! I look up at the monu-
mental tablets on the wall, and try ta think of Mr. Bodgers late
of this parish, and what the feelings of Mrs. Bodgers must have
been, when affliction sore, long time, Mr. Bodgers bore, and
physicians were in vain. I wonder whether they called in Mr.
Chillip, and he was in vain, and if so, how he likes to be re-
minded of it once a week. I look from Mr. Chillip, in his
Sunday neckcloth, to the pulpit, and think what a good place
it would be to play in, and what a castle it would make, with
another boy coming up the stairs to attack it, and having the
velvet cushion with the tassels thrown down on his head. In
time my eyes gradually shut up, and from seeming to hear the
46 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
clergyman singing a drowsy soiig in the heat, I hear nothing,
until I fall off the seat with a crash, and am taken out, more
dead than alive, by Peggotty.
And now I see the outside of our house, with the latticed
bedroom-windows standing open to let in the sweet-smelling air,
and 'the ragged old rooks' nests still dangling in the elm-trees at
the bottom of the front garden. Now 1 am in the garden at
the back, beyond the yard where the empty pigeon-house and
dog-kennel are — a very preserve of butterflies, as I remember
it, with a high fence, and a gate and padlock ; where the fruit
clusters on the trees, riper and richer than fruit has ever been
since, in any other garden, and where my mother gathers some
in a basket, while I stand by, bolting furtive gooseberries, and
trying to look unmoved. A great wind rises, and the summer
is gone in a moment. We are playing in the winter twilight,
dancing about the parlor. When my mother is out of breath
and rests herself in an elbow chair, I watch her winding her
bright curls round her fingers, and straitening her waist, and
nobody knows better than I do that she likes to look so well,
and is proud of being so pretty.
That is among my very earliest impressions. That, and a
sense that we were both a little afraid of Peggotty, and submitted
ourselves in most things to her direction, were among the first
opinions — if they may be so called — that I ever derived from
what I saw.
Peggotty and I were sitting one night by the parlor fire, alone.
I had been reading to Peggotty about Crocodiles. I must have
read very perspicuously, or the poor soul must have been deeply
interested, for I remember she had a cloudy impression after I had
done, that they were a sort of vegetable. I was tired of read-
ing, and dead sleepy ; but having leave, as a high treat, to sit
up until my mother came home from spending the evening at
a neighbor's, I would rather have died upon my post (of course)
dhan gone to bed. I had reached that stage of sleepiness when
Peggotty seemed to swell and grow immensely large. I prop-
ped my eyelids open with my two forefingers, and looked per-
severingly at her as she sat at work ; at the little bit of wax
Uur Pew a*^ Church.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 47
candle she had got for her thread — how old it looked, being so
wrinkled in all directions ! — at the little house with a thatched
roof, where the yard-measure lived ; at her woik-box with a
sliding lid with a view of Saint Paul's Cathedral (with a pink
dome) painted on the top ; at the'brass thimble on her finger ;
at herself, whom I thought lovely. I felt so sleepy that I knew
if I lost sight of any thing, for a moment, I was gone.
<« Peggotty," says I, suddenly, " were you ever married ?"
" Lord, Master Davy," replied Peggolty. " What's put
marriage in your head !"
She answered with such a start, that it quite awoke me.
And then she stopped in her work, and looked at me, with her
needle drawn out to its thread's length.
" But were you ever married, Peggotty ?" says I. ' " You
are a very handsome woman, an't you ?"
I thought her in a different style from my mother, cer-
tainly ; but of another school of beauty, I considered her a
perfect example. There was a red velvet footstool in the best
parlor on which my mother had painted a nosegay. The
groundwork of that stool, and Peggotty 's complexion, appeared
to me to be one and the same thing. The stool was smooth,
and Peggotty was rough, but that made no difference.
" Me handsome, Davy !" said Peggotty. '• Lawk, no my
dear ! But what put marriage in your head ?"
" I don't know ! — You mustn't marry more than one person
at a time, may you, Peggotty ?"
" Certainly not," says Peggotty, with the promptest decision.
" But if you marry a person, and the person dies, why then
you may marry another person, mayn't you, Peggotty ?"
"You MAY," says Peggotty — "if you choose, my dear.
That's a matter of opinion."
" But what is your opinion, Peggotty ?" said L
I asked her, and looked curiously at her, because she looked
80 curiously a1 me.
^' My opinion is," said Peggotty, taking her eyes from me,
after a little indecision, and going on with her work, " that I
48 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
never was married myself, Master Davy, and that 1 don't expect
to be. That's all I know about the subject."
'*You an't cross, 1 suppose, Peggotty, are you?" said I,
after sitting quiet for a minute.
I really thought she was, she had been so short with me :
but I was quite mistaken ; for she laid aside her work (which
was a stocking of her own) and opening her arms wide, took
my curly head within them, and gave it a good squeeze. I
know it was a good squeeze, because, being very plump, when-
ever she made any little exertion after she was dressed, some
of the buttons on the back of her gown, flew off. And I recol-
lect two bursting to the opposite side of the parlor, while she
was hugging me.
** Now let me hear some more about the Crorkindills," said
Peggotty, who was not quite right in the name yet, " for I an't
heard half enough."
I couldn't quite understand why Peggotty looked so queer,
or why she was so ready to go back to the crocodiles. How-
ever, we returned to those monsters, with fresh wakefulness on
my part, and we left their eggs in the sand for the sun to hatch ;
and we ran away from them and baffled them by constantly
turning, which they were unable to do quickly, on account of
their unwieldy make ; and we went into the water after them,
as natives, and put sharp pieces of timber down their throats ;
and in short we ran the whole crocodile gauntlet. / did at
least ; but 1 had my doubts of Peggotty, who was thoughtfully
sticking her needle into various parts of her face and arms, all
the time.
We had exhausted the crocodiles, and begun with the alliga-
tors when the garden bell rang. We went out to the door, and
there was my mother, looking unusually pretty, I thought, and
with her a gentleman with beautiful black hair and whiskers,
who had walked home with us from church last Sunday.
As my mother stooped down on the threshold to take me in
her arms and kiss me, the gentleman said I was a more highly
privileged little fellow than a monarch — or something like
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 49
that ; for my later understanding comes, I am sensible, to my
aid here.
" What does that mean ?" I asked him over her shoulder.
He patted me on the head ; but somehow, I didn't like him
or his deep voice, and I was jealous that his hand should touch
my mother's in touching me — which it did. I put it away, as
well as I could.
" Oh Davy !" remonstrated my mother.
" Dear boy !" said the gentleman. " I cannot wonder at his
devotion !"
I never saw such a beautiful color on my mother's face be-
fore. She gently chid me for being rude, and keeping me
close to her shawl, turned to thank the gentleman for taking so
much trouble as to bring her home. She put out her hand to
him, as she spoke, and, as he met it with his own she glanced,
I thought, at me.
" Let us say * good night,' my fine boy," said the gentleman,
when he had bent his head — I saw him ! — over my mother's
little glove.
" Good night !" said I.
" Come ! Let us be the best friends in the world !'* said the
gentleman, laughing. "Shake hands."
M} right hand was in my mother's left, so I gave him the
other.
" Why, that's the wrong hand, Davy !" laughed the gentle-
man.
My mother drew my right hand forward, but I was resolved,
for my former reason, not to give it him, and I did not. I gave
him the other, and he shook it heartily, and said I was a brave
fellow, and went away.
At this minute I see him turn round in the garden, and give us
a last look with his ill-omened black eyes, before the door was shut.
Peggotty, who had not said a word or moved a finger, se-
cured the fastenings instantly, and we all went into the parlor.
My mother, contrary to her usual habit, instead of coming to
the elbow chair by the fire, remamoJ at the other end of the
room, and sat singing to herself.
3
50 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" — Hope you have had a pleasant evening, ma'am," said
Peggotty, standing as stiff as a barrel in the centre of the room,
with a candlestick in her hand.
*' Much obliged to you, Peggotty," returned my mother, in a
cheerful voice, " I have had a very pleasant evening."
" A stranger or so makes an agreeable change," suggested
Peggotty.
"A very agreeable change indeed," returned my mother.
Peggotty continuing to stand motionless in the middle of the
room, and my mother resuming her singing, I fell asleep,
though I was not so sound asleep but that I could hear voices,
without hearing what they said. When I half awoke from
this uncomfortable doze, I found Peggotty and my mother both
in tears, and both talking.
" Not such a one as this, Mr. Copperfield wouldn't have
liked," said Peggotty. " That 1 say, and that I swear !"
" Good Heavens !" cried my mother. " You'll drive me
mad ! Was ever any poor girl so ill-used by her servants as I
am! Why do I do myself the injustice of calling myself a
girl ? Have I never been married, Peggotty ?"
" God knows you have, ma'am," returned Peggotty.
"Then how can you dare," said my mother — "you know I
don't mean how can you dare, Peggotty, but how can you have
the heart — to make me so uncomfortable, and say such bitter
things to me, when you are well aware that I haven't, out of
this place, a single friend to turn to !"
" The more's the reason," returned Peggotty, " for saying
that it won't do. No! That it won't do. No! No price
could make it do. No !" — I thought Peggotty would have
thrown the candlestick away, she was so emphatic with it.
" How can you be so aggravating !" said my mother, shedding
more tears than before, " as to talk in such an unjust manner !
How can you go on as if it was all settled and arranged, Peg-
gotty, when I tell you over and over again, you cruel thing, that
beyond the commonest civilities nothing has passed ! You talk
of admiration. What am I to do? If people are so silly as to
indulge the sentiment, is it my fault ? What am I to do, I ask
4^
DAVID COrrERFIELD. 51
you ? Would you wish me to shave my head and black my
face, or disfigure myself with a burn, or a scald, or something
of that sort ? I dare say you would, Peggotty. I dare say
you'd quite enjoy it."
Peggotty seemed to take this aspersion very much at heart, I
thought.
" And my dear boy," cried my mother, coming to the elbow
chair in which I was, and caressing me, " my own little Davy !
Is it to be hinted to me that I am wanting in affection for my
precious treasure, the dearest little fellow that ever was !"
" Nobody never went and hinted no such thing," said Peg-
gotty.
" You did, Peggotty !" returned my mother. " You know
you did. What else was it possible to infer from what you
said, you unkind creature, when you know as well as I do, that
on his account only last quarter I wouldn't buy myself a new
parasol, though that old green one is frayed the whole way up,
and the fringe is perfectly mangey. You know it is, Peggotty.
You can't deny it." Then turning affectionately to me with
her cheek against mine; "Am I a naughty mamma to you,
Davy ? Am I nasty, cruel, selfish, bad mamma 1 Say I am,
my child ; say ' yes,' dear boy, and Peggotty will love you, and
Peggotly's love is a great deal better than mine, Davy. / dont
love you at all, do I ?"
At this, we all fell a crying together. I think I was the
loudest of the party, but I am sure we were all sincere about
it. I was quite heart-broken myself, and am afraid that in the
first transports of wounded tenderness I called Peggotty a
" beast." That honest creature was in deep afHiction I remem-
ber, and must have become quite buttonless on the occasion ;
for a little volley of those explosives went off, when, after having
made it up with my mother, ste kneeled down by the elbow
chair, and made it up with me.
We went to bed greatly dejected. My sobs kept waking me
for a long time, and when one very strong sob quite hoisted me
up in bed, I found my motlier sitting on the coverlet, and leaning
over me. I fell asleep in her arms, after that, and slept soundly.
62 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Wliether it was the following Sunday when I saw the gen-
tleman again, or whether there was any greater lapse of time
before he reappeared, I cannot recall. I don't profess to be
clear about dates. But there he was, in church, and he walked
home with us afterwards. He came in, too, to look at a famous
geranium we had in the parlor window. It did not appear to
me that he took much notice of it, but before he went he asked
my mother to give him a bit of the blossom. She begged him
to choose it for himself, but he refused to do that — I could not
understand why — so she plucked it for him and gave it into his
hand. He said he should never, never part with it any more,
and I thought he must be quite a fool not to know that it would
fall to pieces in a day or two.
Pcoro-otty began to be less with us of an evening, than she had
always been. My mother deferred to her very much — more
than usual, it occurred to me — and we were all three excellent
friends, still we were different from what we used to be, and
were not so comfortable among ourselves. Sometimes I fan-
cied that Peggotty perhaps objected to my mother's wearing all
the pretty dresses she had in her drawers, or to her going so
often to that neighbor's of an evening ; but I couldn't, to my
satisfaction, make out how it was.
Gradually I became used to seeing the gentleman with the
black whiskers. 1 liked him no better than at first, and had
the same uneasy jealousy of him ; but if I had any reason for
it beyond a child's instinctive dislike, and a general idea that
Peggotty and I could make much of my mother without any
help, it certainly was not the reason that I might have found if
I had been older. No such thing came into my mind or near
it. I could observe, in little pieces, as it were ; but as to mak-
ing a net of a number of these pieces, and catching any body in
it, that was, as yet, beyond me.
One autumn morning I was with my mother in the front
garden, when Mr. Murdstone — I knew him by that name now
—came by, on horseback. He reined up his horse to salute
mv mother, and said he was sjoinsj to Lowestoft to se^? some
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 68
friends who were there with a yacht, and merrily proposed to
take me on the saddle before him if I would like the ride.
The air was so clear and pleasant, and the horse seemed to
like the idea of the ride so much himself, as he stood snorting
and pawing at the garden gate, that I had a great desire to go.
So I was sent up stairs to Peggotty to be made spruce, and in
the meantime Mr. Murdstone dismounted, and, with his horse's
bridle drawn over his arm, walked slowly up and down on the
outer side of the sweetbrier fence, while my mother walked
slowly up and down on the inner to keep him company. I
recollect Peggotty and I peeping out at them from my little
window ; I recollect how closely they appeared to be examin-
ing the sweetbrier between them, as they strolled along ; and
how, from being in a perfectly angelic temper, Peggotty turned
cross in a moment, and brushed my hair the wrong way, ex-
cessively hard.
Mr. Murdstone and I were soon off, and trotting along on the
green turf by the side of the road. He held me quite easily
with one arm, and I don't think I was restless usually ; but I
could not make up my mind to sit in front of him without turn-
ing my head sometimes, and looking up in his face. He had
that kind of shallow black eye — I want a better word to ex-
press an eye that has no depth in it to be looked into — which,
when it is abstracted, seems, from some peculiarity of light, to
be disfigured, for a moment at a time, by a cast. Several times
when I glanced at him, I observed that appearance with a sort
of awe, and wondered what he was thinking about so closely.
His hair and whiskers were blacker and thicker, looked at so
near, than even I had given them credit for being. A square-
ness about the lower part of his face, and the dotted indication
of the strong black beard he shaved close every day, reminded
me of the Wax-work that had travelled into our neighborhood
some half a year before. This, his regular eyebrows, and the
rich white, and black, and brown, of his complexion — confound
his complexion, and his memory ! — made me think him, in
spite of my misgivings, a very handsome man. 1 have no doub;
that my poor dear mother thought him so too.
64 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
'We went to a hotel by the sea, where two gentlemen were
smoking cigars in a room by themselves. Each of them was
lying on at least four chairs, and had a large rough jacket on.
In a corner was a heap of coats and boat cloaks, and a flag, all
bundled up together.
They both rolled on to their feet in an untidy sort of manner
when we came in, and said " Halloa Murdstone ! We thought
you were dead !"
" Not yet," said Mr. Murdstone.
" And who's this shaver ?" said one of the gentlemen, •
taking hold of me.
" That's Davy," returned Mr. Murdstone.
" Davy who ?" said the gentleman, " Jones ?"
" Copperfield," said Mr. Murdstone.
" What ! Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield's incumbrance V*
cried the gentleman. " The pretty little widow ?"
" Quinion," said Mr. Murdstone, " take care if you please.
Somebody's sharp."
" Who is ?" asked the gentleman, laughing.
1 looked up, quickly ; being curious to know.
"Only Brooks of Sheffield," said Mr. Murdstone.
I was quite relieved to find it was only Brooks of Sheffield ;
for, at first, I really, thought it was I.
There seemed to be something very comical in the reputation
of Mr. Brooks of Sheffield, for both the gentlemen laughed
heartily when he was mentioned, and Mr. Murdstone was a
good deal amused also. After some laughing, the gentleman
whom he had called Quinion, said :
" And what is the opinion of Brooks of Sheffield, in reference
to the projected business ?"
" Why, 1 don't know that Brooks understands much about it
at present," replied Mr. Murdstone ; " but he is not generally
favorable, I believe."
There was more laughter at this, and Mr. Quinion said, he
would ring the bell for some sherry in which to drink to Brooks.
This he did, and when the wine -came, he made me have a
Lttle, with a biscuit, and before I drank it, stand up and say
DAVID C 0 P P E R F I E L D . 65
" Confussion to Brooks of Sheffield !" The toast was received
with great applause, and such hearty la ighier that it made me
laugh too ; at which they laughed the more. In short, we
quite enjoyed ourselves.
We walked about on the cliff after that, and sat on the
grass, and looked at things through a telescope — I could make
oul nothing myself when it was put to my eye, but I pretended
I could — and then we came back to the hotel to an early din-
ner. All the time we were out the two gentlemen smoked
incessantly — which, I thought, if I might judge from the smell
of their rough coats, they must have been doing ever since the
coats had first come home from the tailors'. I must not forget,
that we went on board the yacht, where they all three de-
scended into the cabin, and were busy with some papers — I saw
them quite hard at work, when I looked down through the open
skylight. They left me, during this time, with a very nice
man with a very large head of red hair and a very small shiny
hat upon it, who had got a cross-barred shirt or waistcoat on,
with " Skylark" in capital letters, across the chest. I thought
It was his name, and that, as he lived on board ship and hadn't
a street door to put his name on, he put it there instead ; but
when I called him Mr. Skylark, he said it meant the vessel.
I observed all day that Mr. Murdstone was graver and
steadier than the two gentlemen. They were very gay and
careless. They jok'ed freely with one another, but seldom
with him. It appeared to me that he was more clever and
cold than they were, and that they regarded him with some
thing of my own feeling. I remarked that once or twice when
Mr. Quinion was talking, he looked at Mr. Murdstone side-
ways, as if to make sure 'jf his not being displeased ; and that
once when Mr. Jegg (the other gentleman) was in high spirits,
he trod upon his foot, and gave him a secret caution with his
eyes, to observe Mr. Murdstone, who was sitting stern and si-
lent. Nor do I recollect that Mr. Murdstone lauglied at all that
iay, except at the Sheffield joke — and that, by the by, was his
own.
We went home, early in the evening. It was a very fine
66 DAVID COPPERFILLD.
evening, and my mother and he had another stroll by the sweet-
brier while I was sent in to get my tea. When he was eone,
my mother asked me all about the day I had had, and what
they had said and done. I mentioned what they had said about
her, and she laughed, and told me they were impudent fellows
who talked nonsense — but I knew it pleased her. I knew it
quite as well as I know it now. I took the opportunity of
asking if she was at all acquainted with Mr. Brooks of Shef-
field, but she answered No, only she supposed he must be a
manufacturer in the knife and fork way.
Can I say of her face — altered as I have reason to remember
it, perished as I know it is — that it is gone, when here it comes
before me at this instant as distinct as any face that I may
choose to look on in a crowded street ? Can I say of her inno-
cent and girlish beauty, that it faded, and was no more, when
its breath falls on my cheek now, as it fell that night ?
Can I say she ever changed, when my remembrance brings
her back to life, thus only, and truer to its loving youth than I
have been, or man ever is, still holds fast what it cherished then ?
I write of her just as she was when I had gone to bed after
this talk, and she came to bid me good night. She kneeled
down playfully by the side of the bed, and laying her chin upon
her hands, and laughing, said :
" What was it they said, Davy ? Tell me again. I can't
believe it."
" ' Bewitching ' " I began.
My mother put her hands upon her lips to stop me.
" It was never bewitching," she said, laughing. " It never
could have been bewitching, Davy. Now I know it wasn't !"
" Yes it was. ' Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield,' " I repeated
stoutly. " And ' pretty.' "
" No no, it was never pretty. Not pretty," interposed my
mother, laying her fingers on my lips again.
" Yes it was. ' Pretty little widow.' "
" What foolish, impudent creatures !" cried my mother,
laughing and covering her face. " What ridiculous men ! An't
they ? Davy dear "
DAVID C 0 r r E 11 F i E L D . 57
" Well, Ma."
" Don't tell Peggotty ; she might be angry with them. I an^
drt^dfully angry with them myself; but 1 would rather Peg-
gotty didn't know."
1 promised, of course, and we kissed one another over and
over again, and I soon fell fast asleep.
It seems to me, at this distance of time, as if it were the next
day when Peggotty broached the striking and adventurous pro-
position I am about to mention ; but it was probably about two
months afterwards.
We were sitting as before, one evening (when my mother
was out as before), in company with the stocking and the yard
measure, and the bit of wax, and the box with Saint Paul's on
the lid, and the crocodile book, when Peggotty after looking
at me several times, and opening her mouth as if she were going
to speak, without doing it — which I thought was merely gaping,
or I should have been rather alarmed — said coaxingly :
" Master Davy, how should you like to go along with me
and spend a fortnight at my brother's at Yarmouth ? Wouldn't
that be a treat ?"
" Is your brother an agreeable man, Peggotty ?" I inquired,
provisionally.
" Oh what an agreeable man he is ! " cried Peggotty, holding
up her hands. " Then there's the sea ; and the boats and
ships ; and the fishermen ; and the beach ; and Am to play
with — "
Peggotty meant her nephew Ham, mentioned in my first
chapter ; but she spoke of him as a morsel of English Gram-
mar— first person singular, present tense Indicative, verb neuter
To be.
I was flushed by her summary of delights, and replied that
It would indeed be a treat, but what would my mother say ?
" Why then I'll as good as bet a guinea," said Peggotty, in-
lent upon my face, " that she'll let us go. I'll ask her, if you
like, as soon as ever she comes home. There now !"
" But what's she to do while we're away ?" said I, putting*
68 DAVID COPPEIIFIELD.
my small elbows on the table to argue the point. " She can'
live by herself."
If Peggotty were looking for a hole, all of a sudden, in the
heel of that stocking, it must have been a very little one indeed,
^nd not worth darninp.
" I say ! Peggotty : She can't live by herself, you know."
" Oh bless you !" said Peggotty, looking at me again at
last. " Don't you know ? She's going to stay for a fortnight
with Mrs. Grayper. Mrs. Grayper's going to have a lot of
company."
Oh ! If that was it, I was quite ready to go. I waited, in
the utmost impatience until my mother came home from Mrs.
Grayper's (for it was that identical neighbor) to ascertain if we
could get leave to carry out this great idea. Without being
nearly so much surprised as I had expected, my mother entered
into it readily, and it was all arranged that night, and my
board and lodging during the visit were to be paid for.
The day soon came for our going. It was such an early
day that it came soon, even to me, who was in a fever of expec-
tation, and half afraid that an earthquake or a fiery mountain,
or some other great convulsion of nature might interpose to
stop the expedition. We were to go in a carrier's cart, which
departed in the morning after breakfast. I would have given
any money to have been allowed to wrap myself up over night,
and sleep in my hat and boots.
It touches me nearly now, although I tell it lightly, to recol-
lect how eager I was to leave my happy home ; to think how
little I suspected what I did leave for ever.
I am glad to recollect that when the carrier's cart was at the
gate, and my mother stood there kissing me, a grateful fondness
for her and for the old place I had never turned my back
upon before, made me cry. I am glad to know that my
mother cried too, and that I felt her heart beat against mine.
I am glad to recollect that when the carrier began to move,
my mother ran out at the gate, and called to him to stop, that
fihe might kiss me once more. I am glad to dwell upon the
DAVID COrPERFIELD. 59
earnestness and love with which she lifted up her face to mine,
and did so.
As we left her standing in the road, Mr. Murdstone came up
to where she was, and seemed to expostulate with her for being
so moved. I was looking back round the awning of the cart,
and wondered what business it was of his. Peggotty, who was
also looking back on the other side, seemed any thing but satis-
fied ; as the face she brought back into the cart denoted.
I sat looking at Peggotty for some time, in a reverie on this
supposititious case. Whether, if she were employed to lose me
like the boy in the fairy tale, I should be able to track my way
home again by the buttons she would shed
CHAPTER III.
I HAVE A CHANGE.
The carrier's liorse was the laziest horse in the world, I shoul-d
hope, and shuffled along with his head down, as if he liked to
keep the people waiting to whom the packages were directed.
I fancied, indeed, that he sometimes chuckled audibly over
this reflection, but the carrier said he was only troubled with a
cough.
The carrier had a way of keeping his head down, like his
horse, and of drooping sleepily forward as he drove, with one
of his arms on each of his knees. I say " drove," but it struck
me that the cart would have gone to Yarmouth quite as well
without him, for the horse did all that — and as to conversation,
he had no idea of it but whistlingr.
Peggotty had got a basket of refreshments on her knee, which
would have lasted us out handsomely, if we had been going to
London by the same conveyance. We ate a good deal, and
slept a good deal. Peggotty always went to sleep with her
chin upon the handle of the basket, her hold of which never
relaxed ; and I could not have believed unless I had heard her
do it, that one defenceless woman could have snored so much.
We made so many deviations up and down lanes, and were
such a long time delivering a bedstead at a public house, and
calling at other places, that I was quite tired, and very glad,
when we saw Yarmouth. It looked rather spongy and soppy,
I thought, as I carried my eye over the great dull waste that
lay across the river ; and I could not help wondering, if the
world were really as round as my geography-book said, how
any part of it came to be so flat. But I reflected that Yar-
mouth might be situated at one of the poles ; which would
account for it.
As we drew a little nearer, and saw the whole adjacent
prospect lying a straight low line under the sky, I hinted to
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 61
Peggotty that a mound or so might have improved it, and also
that if the land had been a little more separated from the sea,
and the town and the tide had not been quite so much mixed
up, like toast and water, it would have been nicer. But Peg-
gotty said, with greater emphasis than usual, that we must
take things as we found them, and that, for her part, she was
proud to call herself a Yarmouth Bloater.
When we got into the street (which was strange enough to
me) and smelt the fish, and pitch, and oakum, and tar, and saw
the sailors walking about, and the carts jingling up and down
over the stones, I felt that I had done so busy a place an in-
justice, and said as much to Peggotty, who heard my expres
sions of delight with great complacency, and told me it waa
well known (I suppose to those who had the good fortune
to be born Bloaters) ^bat Yarmouth was, upon the whole, the
finest place in the universe.
" Here's my Am !" screamed Peggotty, " growed out of
knowledge V
He was waiting for us, in fact, at the public-house, and asked
me how I found myself, like an old acquaintance. I did not
feel, at first, that 1 knew him as well as he knew me, because
he had never come to our house since the night I was born, and
naturally he had the advantage of me. But our intimacy was
mtich advanced by his taking me on his back to carry me
home. He was now, a huge, strong fellow of six feet high,
broad in proportion, and round-shouldered ; but with a simper-
ing boy's face, and curly light hair, that gave him quite a
sheepish look. He was dressed in a canvas jacket, and a pair
of such very stiff trousers that they would have stood quite as
well alone, without any legs in thfim. And you couldn't so
properly have said he wore a hat, as that he was covered in a
top, like an old building, with something pitchy.'
Ham carrying me on his back and a small box of ours under
his arm, and Peggotty carrying another small box of ours, we
turned down lanes bestrewn with bits of chips and little hillocks
of sand, and went past gas-works, rope-walks, boat-builders*
yards, shipwrights' yards, ship-breakers' yards, calkers' yards,
62 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
riggers' lofts, smiths' forges, and a great litter of such places,
until we came out upon the dull waste I had already seen at a
distance ; when Ham said,
" Yon's our house, Master Davy !"
I looked in all directions, as far as I could stare over the
wilderness, and away at the sea, and away at the river, but no
house could / make out. There was a black barge, or some
other kind of superannuated boat, not far off, high and dry on
the ground, with an iron funnel sticking out of it for a chimney
and smoking very cosily, but nothing else in the way of a
habitation that was visible to me.
" That's not it ?" said I, " that ship-looking thing V
*' That's it. Master Davy," returned Ham.
If it had been Aladdin's Palace, roc's egg and all, I suppose
I could not have been more charmed with the romantic idea of
living in it. There was a delightful door cut in the side, and
it was roofed in, and there were little windows in it ; but the
wonderful charm of it was, that it was a real boat which had
no doubt been upon the water hundreds of times, and which
had never been intended to be lived in, on dry land. That was
the captivation of it to me. If it had ever been meant to be
lived in, I might have thought it small, or inconvenient, or
lonely, but never having been designed for any such use, it
became a perfect abode.
It was beautifully clean inside, and as tidy as possible.
There was a table, and a Dutch clock, and a chest of drawers,
and on the chest of drawers there was a tea-tray with a paint-
ing on it of a lady with a parasol, taking a walk with a military-
looking child who was trundling a hoop. The tray was kept
from tumbling down, by a Bible, and the tray, if it had tumbled
down, would have smashed a quantity of cups and saucers and
a teapot that were grouped around the book. On the walls
there were some common colored pictures, framed and glazed,
of Scripture subjects, su ^,h as I have never seen since in the
hands of pedlers, without seeing the whole interior of Peggotty's
brother's house again, at one view. Abraliam in red going to
Bacrifice Isaac in blue, and Daniel in yellow cast into a den ot
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 63
green lions, were the most prominent of these. Over the little
mantel-shelf, was a picture of the Sarah Jane Lugger, built at
Sunderland, with a real little wooden stern stuck on to it ; a
work of art, combining composition with carpentery, which I
considered to be one of the most enviable possessions that the
world could afford. There were some hooks in the beams of
the ceiling, the use of which 1 did not divine then ; and some
lockers and boxes and conveniences of that sort, which served
for seats, and eked out the chairs.
All this, I saw in the first glance after I crossed the threshold
— childlike, according to my theory — and then Peggotty opened
a little door and showed me my bedroom. It was the com-
pletest and most desirable bedroom ever seen ; in the stern of
the vessel ; with a little window where the rudder used to go
through ; a little looking-glass, just the right height for me,
nailed against the wall, and framed with oyster shells ; a little
bed which there was just room enough to get into ; and a nose-
gay of seaweed in a blue mug on the table. The walls were
whitewashed as white as milk, and the patchwork counterpane
made ray eyes quite ache with its brightness. One thing I par-
ticularly noticed in this delightful house, was the smell of fish ;
which was so searching that when T took out my pocket-hand-
kerchief to wipe my nose, I found it smelt exactly as if it had
wrapped up a lobster. On my imparting this discovery in con-
fidence to Peggotty, she informed me that her brother dealt in
lobsters, crabs, and crawfish ; and I afterwards found that a
heap of these creatures, in a state of vvonderful conglomeration
with one another, and never leaving off pinching whatever they
laid hold of, were usually to be found in a little wooden cui-
house where the pots and kettles were kept.
We were welcomed by a very civil woman in a white apron,
whom I had seen curtseying at the door when I was on Ham's
back, about a quarter of a mile off. Likewise by a most
beautiful little girl (or 1 thought her so) with a necklace of
blue beads on, who wouldn't let me kiss her when I offered to,
but ran away and hid herself. By and by, when we had dined
In a sumptuous manner off boiled dabs, melted butter, and
^i? DAVID COPTERFIELD.
pctatoesj with a chop for me, a hairy man with a very good-
natured face, came home. As he called Peggotty " Lass,"
and gave her a hearty smack on the cheek, I had no doubt,
from the general propriety of her conduct, that he was her
brother ; and so he turned out : being presently introduced to
me as Mr. Peggotty, the master of the house.
" Glad to see you, Sir," said Mr. Peggotty. " You'll find us
rough. Sir, but you'll find us ready."
I thanked him, and replied that I was sure I should be happy
in such a delightful place.
" How's your Ma, Sir," said Mr. Peggotty. " Did you leave
her pretty jolly ?"
I gave Mr. Peggotty to understand that she was as jolly as
I could wish, and that she desired her compliments — which was
a polite fiction on my part.
" I'm much obleeged to her, Pm sure," said Mr. Peggotty.
" Well, Sir, if you can make out here, fur a fortnut, 'long
wi' her," nodding at his sister, " and Ham, and little Em'ly,
we shall be proud of your company."
Having done the honors of his house in this hospitable man-
ner, Mr. Peggotty went out to wash himself in a kettlefull of
hot water, remarking that " cold would never get Ids muck
off." He soon returned, greatly improved in appearance, but
so rubicund, that I couldn't help thinking his face had this in
common with the lobsters, crabs, and crawfish ; — that it went
into the hot water very black, and came out very red.
After tea, when the door was shut and all was made snug (the
nights being cold and misty now) it seemed to me the most de-
licious retreat that the imagination of man could conceive.
To hear the wind getting up out at sea, to know that the fog
was creeping over the desolate flat outside, and to look at the
fire, and think that there was no house near but this one,
and this one a boat, was like enchantment. Little Em'ly had
overcome her shyness, and was sitting by my side upon the
lowest and least of the lockers, which was just large enough
for us two, and just fitted into the chimney corner. Mrs. Peg-
gotty with the white apron, was knitting on the opposite side of
B
cr
o
05
o
OF THE
b^^lVERSITY OF iLLIN^f^
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 66
the fire. Peggotty at her needle- work was as much at home
with Saint Paul's and the bit of wax-candle as if they had never
known any other roof. Ham, who had been giving me my
first lesson in all-fours, was trying to recollect a scheme of tell-
ing fortunes with the dirty cards, and printing off fishy im-
pressions of his thumb on all the cards he turned. Mr.
Peggotty was smoking his pipe. I felt it was a time for con-
versation and confidence.
" Mr. Peggotty !" says I.
" Sir," says he.
" Did you give your son the name of Ham, because you Uvea
in a sort of Ark V
Mr. Peggotty seemed to think it a deep idea, but answered :
"No, Sir. I never giv him no name."
" Who gave him that name, then V said I, putting question
number two of the catechism to Mr. Peggotty.
" Why, Sir, his father giv it him," said Mr. Peggotty.
" I thought you were his father \"
" My brother Joe was Ms father," said Mr. Peggotty.
" Dead, Mr. Peggolty ?" I hinted, after a respectful pause.
" Drowndead," said Mr. Peggotty.
1 was very much surprised that Mr. Peggotty was not
Ham's father, and began to wonder whether I was mistaken
about his relationship to any body else there. 1 was so curious to
know, that I made up my mind to have it out with Mr. Peggotty.
" Little Em'ly/' I said, glancing at her. " She is your
daughter, isn't she, Mr. Peggotty ?"
" No, Sir. My brother-in-law, Tom, was her father."
I couldn't help it. " — Dead, Mr. Peggotty ?" I hinted, after
another respectful siler.v^T?.
" Drowndead," said Mr. Peggotty.
I felt the difficulty of resuming the subject, but had not got
to the bottom of it yet, and must attain the bottom somehow.
So I said :
*' Haven't you any children, Mr. Peggotty ?"
" No, master," he answered, with a short laugh. " I'm a
baclieldore."
4
60 DAVID COPPEREIELD.
"A bachelor!" I said, astonished. "Why, wlio's that, Mr.
Peggotty ?" pointing to the person in the apron who was knitting.
" That's Missis Gummidge," said Mr. Peggotty.
" Gummidge, Mr. Peggotty ?"
But at this point, Peggotty — I mean my own peculiar Peg-
gotty — made such impressive motions to me not ♦o ask any
further questions, that I could only sit and look at all the silent
company, until it was time to go to bed. Then, in the privacy
of my own little cabin, she informe<i me that Ham and Em'ly
were an orphan nephew and niece, whom my host had at differ-
ent tim€>s adopted in their childhood when they were left desti-
tute ; and that Mrs. Gummidge was the widow of his partner
in a boat, who had died very poor. He was but a poor man
himself, said Peggotty, but as good as gold and as true as steel
— those were her similes. The only subject, she informed me,
on which he ever showed a violent temper or swore an oath,
was this generosity of his ; and if it were ever referred to, by
any one of them, he struck the table a heavy blow with his
right hand (had split it on one such occasion), and swore a
dreadful oath that he would be " gormed " if he didn't cut and
run for good, if it was ever mentioned again. It appeared, in
answer to my inquiries, that nobody had the least idea of the
etymology of this terrible verb passive to be gormed ; but that
they all regarded it as constituting a most solemn imprecation.
• I wap very sensible of my entertainer's goodness, and listened
to the women's going to bed in another little crib like mine at
the opposite end of the boat, and to him and Ham hanging up
two hammocks for themselves on the hooks I had noticed in the
roof, in a very luxurious state of mind, enhanced by my being
sleepy. As slumber gradually stole upon me, I heard the wind
howling out at sea and coming on across the flat so fiercely, that
1 had a lazy apprehension of the great deep rising m the night.
But I bethought myself that I was in a boat, after all, and that
a man iike Mr. Peggotty was not a bad person to have on board
if any thing did happen.
Nothing happened, however, worse than morning. Almost
as soon as it shone upon the oyster- shell frame of my mirror, I
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 67
was out of bed, and out with little Em'ly, picking up stones
upon the beach.
" You're quite a sailor, I suppose ?" I said to Em'ly. I don*t
know that I supposed any thing of the kind, but I felt it an act
of gallantry to say something ; and a shining sail close to us,
made such a pretty little image of itself, at the moment, in her
bright eye, that it came into my head to say this.
" No," replied Em'ly, shaking her head. " I'm afraid of
the sea."
" Afraid !" I said, with a becoming air of boldness, and
looking very big at the mighty ocean, " / ain't."
*^ Ah ! but it's cruel," said Em'ly. " I have seen it very
cruel to some of our men. I have seen it tear a boat as big aa
our house, all to pieces."
" I hope It wasn't the boat that "
" That father was drownded in ?" said Em'ly. " No. Not
that one, I never see that boat."
« Nor him ?" 1 asked her.
Little Em'ly shook her head. " Not to remember !"
Here was a coincidence ! I immediately went into an ex ■
planation how I had never seen my own father, and how niy
mother and I had always lived by ourselves in the happiest
state imaginable, and lived so then, and always meant to live
80 ; and how my father's grave was in the churchyard near
our house, and shaded by a tree, beneath the boughs of which
I had walked and heard the birds sing many a pleasant morn-
ing. But there were some differences between Em'ly's orphan-
hood and mine, it appeared. She had lost her mother before
her father ; and where her father's grave was no one knew,
except that it was somewhere in the depths of the sea.
" Besides," said Em'ly, as she looked about for shells and
pebbles, " your father was a gentleman and your mother is a
lady ; and my father was a fisherman, and my mother was a
fisherman's daughter, and my uncle Dan is a fisherman."
" Dan is Mr. Peggotty, is he ?" said I.
*' Uncle Dan — yonder," answered Em'ly, nodding at the
boat-house.
68 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
," Yes. I mean him. He must be very good, I shouU think ?"
" Good ?" said Em'ly. " If I was ever to be a lady, I'd
give him a sky-blue coat with diamond buttons, nankeen trou-
sers, a red velvet waistcoat, a cocked hat, a large gold watch,
a silver pipe, and a box of money."
I said 1 had no doubt that Mr. Peggotty well deserved these
treasures. I must acknowledge that 1 felt it difficult to picture
him quite at his ease in the raiment proposed for him by his
grateful little niece, and that I was particularly doubtful of the
policy of the cocked hat ; but I kept these sentiments to myself.
^Little Em'ly had stopped and looked up at the sky in her
enumeration of these articles, as if they were a glorious vision.
We went on again, picking up shells and pebbles.
" You would like to be a lady ?" I said.
Emily looked at me, and laughed, and nodded " yes."
" I should like it very much. We would all be gentlefolks
together, then. Me, and uncle, and Ham, and Mrs. Gummidge.
We wouldn't mind then, when there come stormy weather.
Not for our own sakes, I mean. We would for the poor fish-
ermen's, to be sure, and we'd help 'em with money when they
come to any hurt."
This seemed to me to be a very satisfactory, and therefore not
at all improbable picture. I expressed my pleasure in the con-
templation of it, and little Em'ly was emboldened to say, shyly,
*' Don't you think you are afraid of the sea, now ?"
It was quiet enough to reassure me, but I have no doubt if I
had seen a moderately large wave come tumbling in, I should
have taken to my heels, with an awful recollection of her
drowned relations. However, I said " No," and I added, " You
don't seem to be, either, though you say you are ;" — for she
was walking much too near the brink of a sort of old jetty or
Wooden causeway we had strolled upon, and 1 was afraid of
her falling over.
" I'm not afraid in this way," said' little Em'ly. " But I
wake when it blows, and tremble to think of uncle Dan and
Ham, and believe I hear 'em crying out for help. That's why
DAVID COrrEnFIELD. C9
I should like so much to be a lady. But I'm not afraid in thia
way. Not a bit. Look here !"
She started from my side, and ran along a jagged timber
which protruded from the place we stood upon, and overhung
the deep water at some height, without the least defence. Tlie
mcident is so impressed on my remembrance, that if I were a
draughtsman I could draw its form here, I dare say, accurately
as it was that day, and Liitle Em'ly springing forward to her
destruction (as it appeared to me), with a look that I have never
forgotten, directed out to sea.
The light, bold, fluttering little figure turned and came back
safe to me, and I soon laughed at my fears, and at the cry I
had uttered ; fruitlessly in any case, for there was no one near.
But there have been times since, in my manhood, many times
there have been, when I have thought, Is it possible, among the
possibilities of hidden things, that in the sudden rashness of the
chi'id and her wild look so far off, there was any merciful at-
traction of her into danger, any tempting her towards him per-
mitted on the part of her dead father, that her life might have
a chance of ending that day ! There has been a time since
when I have wondered whether, if the life before her could
have been revealed to me at a glance, and so revealed as that
a child could fully comprehend it, and if her preservation could
have depended on a motion of my hand, I ought to have held it
up to save her. There has been a time since — I do not say it
lasted long, but it has been — when I have asked myself the
question, would it have been better for little Em'ly to have had
the waters close above her head that morning in my sight ; and
when I have answered Yes, it would have been.
This may be premature. I have set it down too soon, perhaps.
But let it stand.
We strolled a long way, and loaded ourselves with th'ngs
that we thought curious, and put some stranded star-fish care-
fully back into the water — I hardly know enough of the race al
this moment to be quite certain wliethor they had ro:\i>on to ffH.']
obliged to us for doing so, or the reverse- -and then 'nade our
way home to Mr. Peggotty's dwelling. VA'e stoppeil u der tha
70 ' DAVID COrPEKFIELD.
lee of the lobster-outhouse to exchange an innocent kiss, and
went in to breakfast glowing with health and pleasure.
" Like two young Mavishes," Mr. Peggotty said. I knew
this meant, in our local dialect, like two young thrushes, and
received it as a compliment.
Of course 1 was in love with little Em'ly. I am sure I loved
that baby quite as truly, quite as tenderly, with greater purity,
and more disinterestedness, than can enter into the best love of
a later time of life, high and ennobling as it is. I am sure my
fancy raised up something round that blue-eyed mite of a child,
which etherealized, and made a very angel of her. If, any
sunny forenoon, she had spread a little pair of wings and flown
away before my eyes, I don't think I should have regarded it
as much more than I had had reason to expect.
We used to walk about that dim old flat at Yarmouth in a
loving manner, hours and hours. The days sported by us, as
if Time had not grown up himself yet, but were a child too,
and always at play. I told Em'ly I adored her, and that unless
she confessed she adored me I should be reduced to the neces-
sity of killing myself with a sword. She said she did, and I
have no doubt she did.
As to any sense of inequality, or youthfiilness, or other diffi-
culty in our way, little Em'ly and i had no such trouble, be-
cause we had no future. We made no more provision for
growing older, than we did for growing younger. We were
the admiration of Mrs. Gummidge and Peggotty, who used to
whisper of an evening when we sat, lovingly, on our little locker
side by side, " Lor ! wasn't it beautiful !" Mr. Peggotty
stniled at us from behind his pipe, and Ham grinned all the
evening and did nothing else. They had something of the sort
of pleasure in us, I suppose, that they might have had in a
toy, or a pocket model of the Colosseum.
I soon found out that Mrs. Gummidge did not always make
herself so agreeable as she might have been expected to do,
under the circumstances of her residence' with Mr. Peggotty.
Mrs. Gummidge's was rather a fretful disposition, and she
whimpered more sometimes than was comfortable for other par
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 71
ties in so small an establishment. I was very sorry for her,
but there were moments when it would have been more agree-
able, I thought, if Mrs. Gummidge had had a convenient apart-
ment of her own to retire to, and had stopped there until her
spirits revived.
Mr. Peggotty went occasionally to a public house callea
The Willing Mind. I discovered this, by his being out on the
second or third evening of our visit, and by Mrs. Gummidge's
looking up at the Dutch clock, between eight and nine, and
saying he was there, and that, what was more, she had known
in the morning he would go there.
Mrs. Gummidge had been in a low state all day, and had
burst into tears in the forenoon, when the fire smoked. " I am
a lone lorn creetur'," were Mrs. Gummidge's words, when
that unpleasant occurrence took place, " and every think goes
contrairy with me."
" Oh, it '11 soon leave off," said Peggotty — I again mean our
Peggotty — " and besides, you know, it's not more disagreeablt»
to you than to us."
" I feel it more," said Mrs. Gummidge.
It was a very cold day, with cutting blasts of wind. Mrs.
Gummidge's peculiar corner of the fireside seemed to me to be
the warmest and snuggest in the place, as her chair was cer-
tainly the easiest, but it didn't suit her that day at all. She
was constantly complaining of the cold, and of its occasioning
a visitation in her back which she called " the creeps." At
last she shed tears on that subject, and said again that she was
" a lone lorn creetur' and every think went contrairy with her."
" It is certainly very cold," said Peggotty. " Every body
must feel it."
" I feel it more than other people," said Mrs. Gummidge.
So at dinner, when Mrs. Gummidge was always helped im-
mediately after n>e, to whom the preference was given as a
visitor of distinction. The fish were small and bony, and the
potatoes were a little burnt. We all acknowledged that we
felt this something of a disappointment ; but Mrs. Gummidge
72 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
said she felt it more than we did, and shed tears again, anu
made that former declaration with great bitterness.
Accordingly, when Mr. Peggotty came home about nine
o'clock, this unfortunate Mrs. Gummidge was knitting in hef
corner in a very wretched and miserable condition. Peggotty
had been working cheerfully. Ham had been patching up a
great pair of water-boots, and I, with little Em'ly by my side,
had been reading to them. Mrs. Gummidge had never made
any other remark than a forlorn sigh, and had never raised her
eyes since tea.
" Well, Mates," said Mr. Peggotty, taking his seat, " and
how are you ?"
We all said something, or looked something, to welcome
him, except Mrs. Gummidge, who shook her head over her
knitting.
" What's amiss ?" said Mr. Peggotty, with a clap of hia
hands. "Cheer up, old Mawther!" (Mr. Peggotty meant
old girl.)
Mrs. Gummidge did not appear to be able to cheer up. She
took out an old black silk handkerchief and wiped her eyes,
but instead of putting it in her pocket, kept it out, and wiped
them again, and still kept it out ready for use.
" What's amiss, dame ?" said Mr. Peggotty.
" Nothing," returned Mrs. Gummidge. " You've come
from The Willing Mind, Dan'l ?"
" Why yes, I've took a short spell at The Willing Mind to-
night," said Mr. Peggotty.
" I'm sorry I should drive you there," said Mrs. Gummidge*
" Drive ! I don't want no driving," returned Mr. Peggotty,
with an honest laugh. " I only go too ready."
" Very ready," said Mrs. Gummidge, shaking her head, and
wiping her eyes. " Yes, yes, very ready. I am sorry it
should be along of me that you're so ready."
" Along o' you ? It an't along o' you !" said Mr. Peggotty.
" Don't ye believe a bit on it."
" Yes, yes, it is," cried Mrs. Gummidge. " I know what I
am. I know that I'm a lone lorn creetur, and not only that
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 73
eveiy think goes contrairy with me, but that I go contrairv
with every body. Yes, yes. I feel more than other people
do, and I show it more. It's my misfortun'."
I really couldn't help thinking as I sat taking in all this,
that the misfortune extended to some other members of that
family besides Mrs. Gummidge. But Mr. Peggotty made no
Buch retort, only answering with another entreaty to Mrs. Gum-
midge to cheer up.
" I an't what I could wish myself to be," said Mrs. Gum-
midge. " I am far from it. I know what I am. My troubles
has made me corftrairy. I feel my troubles, and they make me
contrairy. I wish I didn't feel 'em, but I do. I wish I could
be hardened to 'em, but I an't. I make the house uncomforta-
ble. I don't wonder at it. I've made your sister so all day,
and Master Davy."
Here I was suddenly melted, and roared out, " No, you
haven't, Mrs. Gummidge ;" in great mental distress.
" It's far from right that I should do it," said Mrs. Gummidge.
" It an't a fit return. I had better go into the House and die.
I am a lone lorn creetur, and had much better not make myself
contrairy here. If thinks must go contrairy with me, and I
must go contrairy myself, let me go contrairy in my Parisfei.
Dan'l, I'd better go into the House, and die and be a riddance !"
Mrs. Gummidge retired with these words, and betook herself
to bed. When she was gone, Mr. Peggotty, who had not exhi-
bited a trace of any feeling but the profoundest sympathy, looked
round upon us, and nodding his head with a lively expression
of that sentiment still animating his face, said in a whisper :
" She's been thinking of the old 'un."
I did not quite understand what Old One Mrs. Gummidga
was supposed to have fixed her mind upon, until Peggotty, on
seeing me to bed, explained that it was the late Mr. Gummidge,
and that her brother always took that for a received truth on
Buch occasions, and that it always had a moving effect upon
him. Some time after he was in his hammock that night, I heard
him myself repeat Id Ham, " Poor thing! She's been thinking
Df the old 'un!" And whenever Mrs. Gummidge was over-
74 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
come ii> a similar manner during the remainder of c ar stay
(which happened some few times) he always said the same
thing in extenuation of the circumstance, and always with the
tenderest commiseration.
So the fortnight slipped away, varied by nothing but the va-
riation of the tide, which altered Mr. Peggotty's times of going
out and coming in, and altered Ham's engagements also.
When the latter was unemployed, he sometimes walked with
us to show us the boats and ships, and once or twice he took us
for a row. I don't know why one slight set of impressions
should be more particularly associated with a place than an-
other, though I believe this obtains with most people, in refer-
ence especially, to the associations of their childhood. I never
hear the name, or read the name, of Yarmouth, but I am re-
minded of a certain Sunday morning on the beach, the bells
ringing for church, little Em'ly leaning on my shoulder, Ham
lazily dropping stones into the water, and the sun, away at sea,
just breaking through the heavy mist, and showing us the ships,
like their own shadows.
At last the day came for going home. I bore up against the
separation from Mr. Peggotty and Mrs. Gummidge, but my
agony of mind at leaving little Em'ly was piercing. We went
arm in arm to the public house where the carrier put up, and
I promised, on the road, to write to her. (I redeemed that pro-
mise afterwards in characters larger than those in which apart-
ments are usually announced in manuscript, as being to let.)
We were greatly overcome at parting, and if ever, in my life,
I have had a void made in my heart, I had one made that day.
Now, all the time I had been on my visit, I had been un-
grateful to my home again, and had thought little or nothing
about it. But I was no sooner turned towards it, than my re-
proachful young conscience seemed to point that way with a
steady finger, and I felt, all the more for the sinking of my spi-
rits, that it was my nest, and that my mother was my comforter
and friend.
This gained upon me as we went along ; so that the nearer
we drew, and the more familiar the objects became that we
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 75
r?i3sed, the more excited I was to ge' there, and to run into lier
arms. But Peggotty, instead of sharing in these transports,
tried to check them (though very kindly) and looked confused
ftnd cut of sorts.
Blunderstone Rookery would come, however, in spite of her
when the carrier's horse plcEised — and did. How well I recol-
lect it, on a cold gray afternoon, with a dull sky, threatening rain !
The door opened, and I looked, half laughing and half cry-
ing in my pleasant agitation, for my mother. It was not she,
but a strange servant.
" Why, Peggotty !" I said ruefully. " Isn't she come home V*
" Yes, yes, Master Davy," said Peggotty. " She's come home.
Wait a bit. Master Davy, and I'll — I'll tell you something."
Between her agitation and her natural awkwardness in getting
out of the cart, Peggotty was making a most extraordinary fes-
toon of herself, but I felt too blank and strange to tell her so.
When she had got down, she took me by the hand ; led me,
wondering, into the kitchen ; and shut the door.
" Peggotty !" said I, quite frightened. " What's the matter?"
" Nothing's the matter, bless you. Master Davy, dear !" she
answered, assuming an air of sprightliness.
" Something's the matter, I am sure. Where's mamma ?"
" Where's mamma. Master Davy ?" repeated Peggotty.
" Yes. Why hasn't she come out of the gate, and what have
we come m here for ? Oh, Peggstty !" My eyes were full,
and I fell as if I were going to tumble down.
" Bless the precious boy !" cried Peggotty, taking hold of me.
" What is it ? Speak, my pet !"
" Not dead too ! Oh, she's not dead, Peggotty ?"
Peggotty cried out with an astonishing volume of voice, and
then sat down, and began to pant, and said I had given her a turn.
I gave her a hug to take away the turn, or to give her another
turn in the right direction, and then stood before her, looking at
her in dumb inquiry.
" You see, dear, I should have told you' before now," said
Peggotty, " but I hadn't an opportunity. I ought to have made
it, perhaps, but I couldn't axackly " — thai was always the sub
76 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
stitute for exactly, in Peggotty's militia of words — " bring my
mind to it."
" Go on, Peggotty," says I, more frightened than ever.
" Master Davy," said Peggotty, untying her bonnet with a
shaking hand, and speaking in a breathless sort of way, " what
do you think ? You have got a Pa !"
I trembled and turned white. Something — I don't know what,
or how — connected with the grave in the churchyard, and the
raising of the Dead, seemed to strike me like an unwholesome
wind.
" A new one," said Peggotty.
" A new one ?" I repeated.
" Peggotty gave a gasp, as if she were swallowing something
that was very hard, and, putting out her hand, said :
" Come and see him."
" I don't want to see him."
— "And your mamma," said Peggotty.
I ceased to draw back, and we went straight to the best par-
lor, where she left me. On one side of the fire sat my mother ;
on the other, Mr. Murdstone. My mother dropped her work,
and arose hurriedly, but timidly 1 thought.
"Now, Clara, my dear," said Mr. Murdstone. " Recollect !
control yourself, always control yourself! Davy boy, how do
you do ?"
1 gave him my hand. After a moment of suspense, I went
and kissed my mother ; she kissed me, patted me gently on the
shoulder, and sat down again to her work. I could not look at
her, I could not look at him, I knew quite well that he was look-
ing at us both — and 1 turned to the window and looked out there,
at some shrubs that were drooping their heads in the cold.
As soon as I could creep away, I crept up stairs. My old dear
bedroom was changed, and I was to lie a long way off. I ram-
bled down stairs to find any thing that was like itself; so altered
it all seemed ; and roamed into the yard. I very soon started
back from there, for the empty dog-kennel was filled up with a
great dog — deep-mouthed and black-haired like Him — and he
was very angry at the sight of me, and sprung out to get at me
CHAPTER IV.
I FALL INTO DISGRACE.
If the room to which my bed was removed, were a seii kient thing
that could give evidence, I might appeal to it at this day — who
Bleeps there now I wonder ! — to bear witness for me what a
heavy heart I carried to it. I went up there, hearing the dog in the
yard bark after me all the way while I climbed the stairs ; and, look-
mg as blank and strange upon the room as the room looked upon
me, sat down wth my small hands crossed, and thought.
I thought of the oddest things. Of the shape of the room, of the
cracks in the ceiling, of the paper on the wall, of the flaws in the
window-glass making ripples and dimples on the prospect, of the
washing-stand being ricketty on its three legs, and having a dis-
contented something about it, which reminded me of Mrs. Gum-
midge under the influence of the old one. I was crying all the
time, but, except that I was conscious of being cold and dejected, I
am sure I never thought why I cried. At last in my desolation I
began to consider that I was dreadfully in love with little Em'ly,
and had been torn away from her to come here where no one
seemed to want me, or to care about me, half as much as she did.
This made such a very miserable piece of business of it, that I rolled
myself up in a corner of the counterpane, and cried myself to
sleep.
I was awoke by somebody saying " Here he is !" and uncovering
my hot head. My mother and Peggotty had come to look for me,
and it was one of them who had done it.
" Davy," said my mother. " "What's the matter ?"
I thought it very strange that she should ask me, and answered
"Nothing." I turned over on my face, I recollect, to hide my
trembhng lip, which answered her with greater truth.
" Davy," said my mother. " Davy, my child !"
I dare say no words she could have uttered, would have affected
78 DAVID COPTERFIELD.
me so much, then, as her calhng me her child. I hid my tear& in
the bedclothes, and pressed her fi-om me with my liand, when sshe
would have raised me up.
" This is your doing, Peggotty, you cruel thing !" said my mother.
" I have no doubt at all about it. How can you reconcile it to your
conscience, I wonder, to prejudice my own boy against me, or
against anybody who is dear to me ? What do you mean by it,
Peggotty ?"
Poor Peggotty lifted up her hands and eyes, and only answered,
in a sort of paraphrase of the grace I usually repeated after dinner,
"Lord forgive you, Mi-s. Copperfield, and for what you have said
this minute, may you never be truly sorry !"
" It's enough to distract me," cried my mother. " In my honey-
moon, too, when my most inveterate enemy might relent, one would
think, and not envy me a Httle peace of mind and happiness.
Da\y, you naughty boy ! Peggott}^, you savage creature ! Oh,
dear me !" cried my mother, turning from one of us to the other, in
her pettish wilful manner, " what a troublesome world this is, when
one has the most right to expect it to be as agreeable as possible !"
I felt the touch of a hand that 1 knew was neither her's nor
Peggotty's, and slipped to my feet at the bedside. It was Mr.
Mm'dstone's hand, and he kept it on my arm as he said :
" What's this ? Clara, my love, have you forgotten ? — Fu-mness,
my dear ?"
" I am very sorry, Edward," said my mother. " I meant to be
ver}'- good, but I am so uncomfortable."
" Indeed !" he aifcwered. " That's a bad hearing, so soon,
Clara."
" I say it's very hard I should be made so now," returned my
mother, pouting ; " and it is — very hard — isn't it ?"
He drew her to him, whispered in her ear, and kissed her. I
knew as well, when I saw my mother's head lean down upon his
shoulder, and her arm touch his neck — I knew as well that he could
mould her phant nature into any form he chose, as I know, now,
that he did it.
" Go you below, my love," said Mr. Murdstone. " DaAid and I
will come down, together. My friend," turning a darkening
fece on Peggotty when he had watched my mother out and
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 79
dismissed her with a nod and a smile : " do you know your mis*
tress's name ?"
" She has been my mistress a long time, sir," answered Peggotty,
" I ought to it."
" That's true," he answered. "But I thought I heard you, as I
came upstairs, address her by a name that is not hers. She has
taken mine, you know. Will you i-emember that ?"
Peggotty, with some uneasy glances at me, curtseyed herself out
of the room without replying ; seeing, I suppose, that she was ex-
pected to go, and had no excuse for remaining. When we two
were left alone, he shut the door, and sitting on a chair, and holding
me standing before him, looked steadily into my eyes. I felt my own
attracted, no less steadily, to his. As I recall our being opposed
thus, face to face, I seem again to hear my heart beat fast and
high.
" David," he said, making his Hps thin, by pressing them to-
gether, " if I have an obstinate horse or dog to deal with, what do
you think I do ?"
" I don't know."
" I beat him."
I had answered in a kind of breathless whisper, but I felt, in mj
silence, that my breath was shorter now.
" I make him wince, and smart. I say to myself, ' I'll conquer
that fellow ;' and if it were to cost him all the blood he had, I should
do it. What is that upon your face ?"
"Dirt," I said.
He knew it was the mark of tears as well as T. But if he had
asked the question twenty times, each time with twenty blows,
I beheve my baby heart would have bmst before I would have told
him so.
" You have a good deal of intelligence for a little fellow," he said,
with a grave smile that belonged to him, " and you understood me
very well, I see. Wash that face, sir, and come down with me."
He pointed to the washing-stand, which I had made out to be like
Mrs. Gummidge, and motioned me with his head to obey him di-
rectly. I had little doubt then, and I have less doubt now, that he
would have knocked me down without the least compunction, if I had
hesitated.
80 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Clara, mj dear," lie said, wlien I had done liis bidding, and he
vs.- liked me into the parlor, with his hand still on my arm, "you will
li'A be made uncomfortable any more, I hope. We shall soon
improve our youthful humoiu's."
God help me, I might have been improved for my whole hfe,
I might have been made another creature, perhaps, for life, by a kind
word at that season. A word of encouragement and exj^lanation, of
pity for my childish ignorance, of welcome home, of reassurance to
me that it was home, might have made me dutiful to him in my
heart henceforth, instead of in my hypociitical outside, and might
have made me respect instead of hate him. I thought my mother
was sorry to see me standing in the room so scared and strange, and
that, presently, when I stole to a chair, she followed me with her
eyes more sorrowfully still — missing, perhaps, some freedom in my
childish tread — but the word was not spoken, and the time for it
was gone.
We dined alone, we three together. He seemed to be very fond
of my mother — I am afraid I hked him none the better for that —
and she was very fond of him. I gathered from what they said, that
an elder sister of his was coming to stay with them, and that she was
expected that evening. I am not certain whether I found out then,
or afterwards, that, \^dthout being actively concerned in any business,
be had some share in, or some annual charge upon the profits of, a
^vine-merchant's house in London, with which his family had been
connected fi*om his great-grandfather's time, and in which his sister
had a similar interest ; but I may mention it in tliis place, whether
01 no.
After dinner, when we were sitting by the fire, and I was medi-
tating an escape to Peggotty without having the hardihood to sHp
away, lest it should offend the master of the house, a coach drove
up to the garden gate, and he went out to receive the visitor. My
mother followed him. I was timidly following her, when she turned
round at the parlor door, in the dusk, and taking me in her embrace
as she used to do, wliispered me to love my new father and be obe-
dient to him. She did this hurriedly and secretly, as if it were
^vTong, but tenderly ; and, putting out her hand behind her, held
'mine in it until we came near to where he was standino: in the
garden, where she let mine go, and di'ew her's through his arm.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 81
It was Miss Murdstone who was arrived, and a gloomy-looking
lady she was ; dark, like her brother, whom she greatly resembled in
face and voice ; and with very heavy eyebrows, nearly meeting over
her large nose, as if, being disabled by the wrongs of her sex from
^^•earing whiskers, she had carried them to that account. She
brought with her two uncompromising hard black boxes, with her
initials on the hds in hard brass nails. When she paid the coach-
man she took her money out of a hard steel purse, and she kept the
purse in a very jail of a bag which hung upon her arm by a heavy
chain, and shut up hke a bite. I had never, at that time, seen such
a metallic lady altogether as Miss Murdstone was.
She was brought into the parlor with many tokens of welcome,
and there formally recognised my mother as a new and near relation.
Then she looked at me, and said :
" Is that your boy, sister-in-law ?"
My mother acknowledged me.
" Generally speaking," said Miss Murdstone, " I don't like boys.
How d'ye do, boy ?"
Under these encouraging circumstances, I rephed that I was very
well, and that I hoped she was the same ; with such an indifferent
grace, that Miss Murdstone disposed of me in two words ;
" Wants manner."
Having uttered which, with great distinctness, she begged the
favor of being shown to her room, which became to me from that
time forth a place of awe and dread, wherein the two black boxes
were never seen open or known to be left unlocked, and where (for I
peeped in once or twice when she was out) numerous httle steel fet-
ters and rivets, with which Miss Murdstone embellished herself when
she was dressed, generally hung upon the looking-glass in formidable
array.
As well as I could make out, she had come for good, and had no
intention of ever going again. She began to " help" my mother
next morning, and was in and out of the store-closet all day, putting
things to rights, and making havoc in the old arrangements.
Almost the firet remarkable thing I observed in Miss Murdstone was,
her being constantly haunted by a suspicion that the servants had a
man secreted somewhere on the premises. Under the influence of
this delusion, she dived into the coal-cellar at the most untimely
82 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
hours, and scarcely ever opened the door of a dark cupboard without
clapping it to again, in the belief that she had got him.
Though there was nothing very airy about Miss Murdstone, she
was a perfect Lark in point of getting up. She was up (and, as t
behe\'e to this hoiu-, looking for that man) before anybody in the
house was stirring. Peggotty gave it as her opinion that she even
slept with one eye open ; but I could not concur in this idea ; for I
tried it myself after hearing the suggestion thrown out, and found it
couldn't be done.
On the very fii-st morning after her arrival she was up and ringing
her beU at cock-crow. When my mother came down to breakfast
and was going to make the tea, Miss Murdstone gave her a kind of
peck on the cheek, which was her nearest approach to a kiss, and
said :
" Now, Clara, my dear, I am come here, you know, to relieve you
of all the trouble I can. You're much too pretty and thoughtless" —
my mother blushed but laughed, and seemed not to dishke thi? cha-
racter— " to have any duties imposed upon you that can be under-
taken by me. If you'll be so good as to give me your keys, my
dear, I'll attend to all this sort of thing in future."
From that time. Miss Murdstone kept the keys in her own httle
^ail all day, and under her pillow all night, and my mother had
no more to do with them than I had.
My mother did not suffer her authority to pass from her without a
ihadow of protest. One night when Miss Murdstone had been
developing certain household plans to her brother, of which he signi-
fied his approbation, my mother suddenly began to cry, and said she
thouo^ht she mio^ht have been consulted.
" Clara !" said Mr. Murdstone sternly. " Clara ! I wonder at
you."
" Oh, ifs very well to say you wonder, Edward !" cried my
mother, " and it's very well for you to talk about firmness, but you
wouldn't like it yourself."
Firmness, I may observe, was the grand quality on which both
Mr. and Miss Murdstone took their stand. However I might have
expressed my comprehension of it at that time, if I had been called
upon, I nevertheless did clearly comjDrehend in my own way, that it
was another name for tyranny, and for a certain gloomy, arrogant*
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 83
devil's humour, that was in them both. The creed, as I should
state it now, was this. Mr. Murdstone was firm ; nobody in hia
world was to be so firm as Mr. Murdstone ; nobody else in his world
was to be firm at all, for everybody was to be bent to his firmness.
Miss Murdstone was an exception. She might be firm, but only by
relationship, and in an inferior and tributary degree. My mother
was another exception. She might be firm, and must be ; but only
in bearing their finnness, and firmly believing there was no other
firmness upon earth.
" It's very hard," said my mother, " that in my own house — ^"
" My own house ?" repeated Mr. Murdstone. " Clara ?"
" Our own house I mean," faltered my mother, evidently fnghtened
■ — " I hope you must know what I mean, Edward — it's very hard
that in our own house I may not have a word to say about domestic
matters. I am sure I managed very well before we were married.
There's evidence," said my mother sobbing ; " ask Peggotty if I
didn't do very well when I wasn't interfered with !"
" Edward," said Miss Murdstone, " let there be an end of this. T
go to-morrow."
" Jane Murdstone," said her brother, " be silent ! How dare you
to insinuate that you don't know my character better than your
words imply ?"
" I am sure," my poor mother went on, at a grievous disadvantage,
and with many tears, " I don't want anybody to go. I should be
very miserable and unhappy if anybody was to go. I don't ask
much. I am not unreasonable. I only want to be consulted
sometimes. I am very much obhged to anybody who assists me,
and I only want to be consulted as a mere form, sometimes. I
thought you were pleased, once, witb my being a little inexperienced
and girhsh, Edward — I am sure you said so — but you seem to hate
me for it now, you are so severe."
" Edward," said Miss Murdstone, again, " let there be an end of
this. I go to-morrow."
"Jane Murdstone," thundered Mr. Mu-dstone. "Will you be
«ilent ? How dare you ?"
Miss Murdstone made a jail-delivery of her pocket-handkerchief
and held it before her eyes.
** Clara," he continued, looking at my mother, " you surprise me.
84 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
You astound me ! Yes, I had a satisfaction in the thought of
marrpng an inexperienced and artless person, and forming hef
character, and infusing into it some amount of that firmness and
decision of which it stood in need. But when Jane Murdstone is
kind enouo-h to come to my assistance in this endeavour, and to
assume, for my sake, a condition something hke a housekeeper's, and
when she meets with a base return — ^"
" Oh pray, pray, Edward," cried my mother, " don't accuse me of
beins: imjn'ateful. I am sure I am not unoa-ateful." No one ever
said I was, before. I have many faults, but not that. Oh don't,
my dear !"
" When Jane Murdstone meets, I say," he went on, after waiting
until my mother was silent, " with a base return, that feeling of mine
is chilled and altered."
" Don't, my love, say that !" implored my mother, very piteously.
" Oh don't, Edward ! I can't bear to hear it. Whatever I am, I
am affectionate. I know I am affectionate. I wouldn't say it, if I
wasn't certain that I am. Ask Peggotty. I am sm-e she'll tell you
I'm affectionate."
" There is no extent of mere weakness, Clara," said Mr.
Murdstone in reply, " that can have the least weight with me. You
lose breath."
" Pray let us be friends," said my mother. " I couldn't live
under coldness or unkindness. I am so sorry. I have a great many
defects, I know, and it's very good of you, Edwai'd, with your
strength of mind, to endeavour to correct them for me. Jane, I
don't object to anything. I should be quite broken-hearted if you
thought of leaving — " My mother was too much overcome to
go on.
" Jane Murdstone," said Mr. Murdstone to his sister, " any harsh
words between us are, I hope, uncommon. It is not my fault that
so unusual an occurrence has taken place to-night. I was betrayed
into it by another. Nor is it your fault. You were betrayed into
it by another. But let us both try to forget it. And as this," he
added, after these magnanimous words, " is not a fit scene for the
boy — Da\^d, go to bed !"
I could hardly find the door, through the tears that stood in my
eyes. I was so sorry for my mother's distress ; but I groped mj
DAVID C 0 P P E R F I E L D . 86
way out, and groped my way up to my room in the dark, without,
even having the heart to say good night to Peggotty, or to get a
candle from her. When her coming up to look for me, an hour or
so afterwards, awoke me, she said that my mother had gone to bed
poorly, and that Mr. and jMjss Murdstone were sitting alone.
Going down next morning rather earher than usual, I paused
outside the parlor door, on hearing my mother's voice. She was
very earnestly and humbly entreating Miss Murdstone's pardon,
which that lady granted, and a perfect reconcihation took place. I
never knew my mother afterwards to give an opinion on any matter,
without first appealing to Miss Murdstone, or without having first
ascertained, by some sure means, what Miss Murdstone's opinion
was ; and I never saw Miss Murdstone, when out of temper (she
was infirm that way), move her hand towards her bag as if she were
going to take out the keys and offer to resign them to my mother,
without seeing that my mother was in a terrible fi'ight.
The gloomy taint that was in the Murdstone blood, darkened the
Murdstone rehgion, which was austere and wrathful. I have
thought, since, that its assuming that character was a necessary con-
sequence of Mr. Murdstone's firmness, which wouldn't allow him to
let any body off from the utmost weight of the severest penalties he
could find any excuse for. Be this as it may, I well remember the
tremendous visages with which we used to go " to church, and the
changed air of the place. ' Again, the dreaded Sunday comes round,
and I file into the old pew first, like a guarded captive brought to a
condemned service. Again, Miss Murdstone, in a black velvet gown,
that looks as if it had been made out of a pall, followed close upon
me ; then my mother ; then her husband. There is no Peggotty
now, as in the old time. Again, I listen to Miss Murdstone mum-
bling the responses, and emphasising all the dread words with a
cruel rehsh. Again, I see her dark eyes roll round the church when
she says " miserable sinners," as if she were calling all the congre
gation names. Again, I catch rare glimpses of my mother, moving
her lips timidly between the two, with one of them muttering at
each ear like low thunder. Again, I wonder with a sudden fear
whether it is likely that our good old clergyman can be wrong, and
Mr. and Miss Murdstone right, and that all the angels in Heaven
can be destroying angels. Again, if I move a finger or relax a
86 DAVID COPPEllFIELD.
muscle of ray face, Miss Murdstone pokes me \\itli her prayer-
book, and makes my side aclie.
Yes, and again, as we walk home, I note some neighbom-s looking
at my mother, and at me, and whispering. Again, as the three go on
arm-in-arm, and I hnger behind alone, I follow some of those looks,
and wonder if my mother's step be really not so hght as I have seen
it, and if the gaiety of her beauty be really almost worried away.
Again, I wonder whether any of the neighbours call to mind, as I
do, how we used to walk home together, she and I ; and I wonder
stupidly about that all the dreary dismal day.
There had been some talk on occasions of my going to a boarding-
school. Mr. and Miss Murdstone had originated it, and my mother
had of coui-se agi'eed with them. Nothing, however, was concluded
on the subject yet. In the meantime, I learnt lessons at home.
Shall I ever forget those lessons ! They were presided over no-
minally by my mother, but really by Mr. Murdstone and his sister,
who were always present, and found them a favourable occasion for
giving my mother lessons in that miscalled firmness, which was the
bane of both our lives. I believe I was kept at home for that pur-
pose. I had been apt enough to learn, and wilhng enough, when
my mother and I had lived alone together. I can faintly remember
learning the alphabet at her knee. To this day, when I look upon
the fat black letters in the primer, the puzzling novelty of their
shapes, and the easy good-nature of 0 and Q and S, seem to present
themselves again before me as they used to do. But they recall no
eeling of disgust or reluctance. On the contrary, I seem to have
walked along a path of flowers as far as the crocodile-book, and to
have been cheered by the gentleness of my mother's voice and man-
ner all the way. But these solemn lessons which succeeded those,
I remember as the death-blow at my peace, and a grievous daily
drudgery and misery. They were veiy long, very numerous, very
hard — perfectly unintelligible, some of them, to me — and I was
generally as much bewildered by them as I believe my poor mother
was herself.
Let me remember how it used to be, and bring one morning back
again.
I come into the second-best parlor after breakfast with my bookS;
and an exercise book, and a slate. My mother is ready for me at
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 87
her writing-desk, but not half so ready as Mr. Murdstone in liis easy
chair by the window (though he pretends to be reading a book), or
as Miss Murdstone, sitting near my mother stringing steel beads.
The very sight of these two has such an influence over me, that I
begin to feel the words I have been at infinite paias to get into my
head, all shding away, and going I don't know where. I wonder
where they do go, by-the-bye ?
I hand the first book to my mother. Perhaps it is a grammar,
perhaps a liistory, or geography. I take a last drowning look at the
page as I give it into her hand, and start off aloud at a racing pace
while I have got it fi-esh. I trip over a word. Mr. Murdstone looks
up. I trip over another word. Miss Murdstone looks up. I
redden, tumble over half-a-dozen words, and stop. I think my
mother would show me the book if she dared, but she does not dare,
and she says softly :
" Oh Davy, DaVy !"
" Now, Clara," says Mr. Murdstone, " be firm with the boy. Don't
say ' Oh Davy, Davy !' That's childish. He knows his lesson, or
he does not know it."
" He does 7iot know it," Miss Murdstone interposes awfully.
" I am really afraid he does not," says my mother.
" Then you see, Clara," returns Miss Murdstone, " you should just
give him the book back, and make him know it."
" Yes, certainly," says my mother ; " that's what I intend to do,
my dear Jane. Now Da\'y, try once more, and don't be stupid."
I obey the first clause of the injunction by trying once more, but
am not so successful with the second, for I am very stupid. I tumble
down before I get to the old place, at a point where I was all right before,
and stop to think. But I can't think about the lesson. I think of
the number of yards of net in Miss Murdstone's cap, or of the price
of Mr. Murdstone's dressing-go>vn, or any such ridiculous problem
that I have no business ^^^th, and don't want to have anything at all
to do with. Mr. Murdstone makes a movement of impatience
which I have been expecting for a long time. Miss Murdstone does
the same. • My mother glances submissively at them, shuts the book,
and lays it by as an arrear to be wjrk^d out when my other t^sks
are done.
There is a pile of these arrears very soon, and it swells like ^
88 . DAViL> COPPEIIFIELD.
rolling snowball. The bigger it gets, the more stupid / get. Tlic
case is so hopeless, and I feel that I am wallowing in such a bog of
nonsense, that I give up all idea of getting out, and abandon myself
to my fate. The despairing way in which my mother and I look at
each other, as I blunder on, is truly melancholy. But the gi-eat(^st
effect in these miserable lessons is when my mother (thinking no-
body is obsei*vuig her) tries to give me the cue by the motion of her
lips. At that instant. Miss Murdstone, who has been Ijang in wait
for nothing else all along, says in a deep warning voice :
"Clara!"
My mother starts, coloui-s, and smiles faintly. Mr. Murdstone
comes out of his chair, takes the book, throws it at me or boxes my
ears with it, and turns me out of the room by the shoulders.
Even when the lessons are done, the worst is yet to happen, in the
shape of an appalling sum. This is invented for me, and delivered
to me orally by Mr. Murdstone, and begins, " If I go into a cheese-
monger's shoj), and buy five thousand double-Gloucester cheeses at
fourpence-hal^3enny each, present payment" — at which I see Miss
Murdstone secretly overjoyed. I pore over these cheeses without
any result or enhghtenment imtil dinner-time ; when, having made
a Mulatto of myself by getting the dirt of the slate into the pores
of my skin, I have a shce of bread to help me out with the cheeses,
and am considered in disgrace for the rest of the evening.
It seems to me, at this distance of time, as if my unfortunate
studies generally took this course. I could have done very well if
I had been without the Murdstones ; but the influence of the Murd-
stones upon me was hke the fascination of two snakes on a wretched
young bird. Even when I did get through the morning with tole-
rable credit, there was not much gained but dinner ; for Miss Murd-
stone never could endure to see me untasked, and if I rashly made
any show of being unemployed, called hei brother's attention to me
oy saying, " Clara, my dear, there 's nothing like work — give your
boy an exercise ;" which caused me to be clapped down to some
new labor there and then. As to any recreation with other children
of my age, I had very Httle of that ; for the gloomy theology of the
Murdstones made all children out to be a swarm of little vipers
(though there was a child once set in the midst of the Disciples),
and held that they contaminated one another.
DAVID C O r i' E il i i Z L D . 89
Tlio natural result of this treatment, continued, I suppose, foJ
some six months, was to make me sullen, dull, and dogged. I waa
not made the less so, by my sense of being daily more and mora
shut out and ahenated from my motlier. I beheve I should have
been almost stu[)ified but for one circumstance.
It was this. My father had left .a small collection of books in a
little room up stairs, to which I had access (for it adjoined ray own)
and which nobody else in our house ever troubled. From that
blessed little room, Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey
Clinker, Tom Jones, The Vicar of Wakefield, Don Quixote, Gil
Bias, and Robinson Crusoe, came out, a glorious host, to keep me
company. They kept alive my fancy, and my hope of something
beyond that place and time, — they, and the Arabian Nights, and
the Tales of the Genii, — and did me no hai*m ; for whatever harm
was in some of them was not there for me : / knew nothino- of it.
It is astonishing to me now, how I found time, in the midst of my
pdrings and blunderings over hea\ier themes, to read those books as
I did. It is curious to me how I could ever have consoled myself
under my small troubles (which were great troubles to me), by im-
personating my favorite characters in them — as I did — and by put-
ting Mr. and Miss Murdstone into all the bad ones — which I did
too. I have been Tom Jones (a child's Tom Jones, a harmless
creature) for a week together. I have sustained my own idea of
Roderick Random for a month at a stretch, I verily believe. I had
a greedy relish foi- a few volumes of Voyages and Travels — I forget
what, now — that were on those shelves ; and for days and days T
can remember to have gone about my region of our house, armed
with the centre-piece out of an old set of boot-trees — the perfect
reahsation of Captain Somebody, of the Royal British Navy, in dan
ger of being beset by savages, and resolved to sell his hfe at a great
price. The Captain never lost dignity, from haWng his ears boxed
with the Latin Grammar. I did ; but the Captain was a Captaiu
and a hero, in despite of all the grammars of all the languages in
the world, dead or alive.
This was my only and my constant comfort. When I think of
it, the picture always rises in my mind, of a summer evening, the
boys at play in the churchyard, and I sitting- on my bed, reading as
if for hfe. Every barn in the neighbourhood, everv stone in tho
90 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
cburcli, and eveiy foot of the churchyard, had some association of
^ts own, in my mind, connected with these books, and. stood foi
some locahty made famous in them. I have seen Tom Pipes go
climbing up the church-steeple ; I have watched Strap, with the
knapsack on his back, stopping to rest himself upon the wicket-gate ;
and I hww that Commodore Trunnion held that club with Mr.
Pickle, in the parlor of our httle village alehouse.
The reader now understands as well as I do, what I was when I
eame to that point of my youthful liistory to which I am now com-
ing again.
One morning w^hen I went into the parlor with my books, I found
my mother looking anxious. Miss Murdstone looking fii-m, and Mr.
Murdstone binding something round the bottx^m of a cane — a hthe
and limber cane, which he left off binding when I came in, and
poised and switched in the air.
"I tell you, Clara," said Mr. Murdstone, "I have been often
flogged myself."
" To be sure ; of coui*se," said Miss Murdstone.
" Certainly, my dear Jane," feiltered my mother, meekly. " But
^ — but do you think it did Edward good V
" Do you think it did Edward harm, Clara ?" asked Mr. Murd-
stone, gravely.
" That 's the point !" said his sister.
To this my mother returned " Certainly, my dear Jane," and said
no more.
I felt apprehensive that I was personally interested in this
dialogue, and sought Mr. Murdstone's eye as it lighted on mine.
" Now, Da\id," he said — and I saw that cast again, as he said it
— " you must be far more careful to-day than usual." He gave the
cane another poise, and another switch ; and having finished his
preparation of it, laid it down beside him, with an expressive look,
and took up his book.
This was a good freshener to my presence of mind, as a begin-
ning. I felt the words of my lesson slipping off, not one by one, or
line by hue, but by the entire page. I tried to lay hold of them ;
but they seemed, if I may so express it, to have put skates on, and
to skim away from me with a smoothness there was no checking.
We began badly, and went on worse. I had come in, with an
DAVID COPPEIIFIELD. 91
idea of distinguishing myself rather, conceiving ill at I was very well
prepared ; but it turned out to be quite a mistake. Book after book
was added to the heap of failures, Miss M\u*dstone being firmly
watchful of us all the time. And when we came at last to the five
thousand cheeses (canes he made it that day, I remember), my
mother burst out crying.
" Clara !" said Miss Murdstone, in her warning voice.
" I am not quite well, my dear Jane, I think," said my mother.
I saw him wink, solemnly, at liis sister, as he rose and said, taking
up the cane,
" Why, Jane, we can hardly expect Clara to bear, wath perfect
firmness, the worry and torment that Da\id has occasioned her to-
day. That would be stoical. Clara is greatly strengthened and
unproved, but we can hardly expect so much fi'om her. David,
you and I will go up stairs, boy."
As he took me out at the door, my mother ran towards us. Miss
Murdstone said, " Clara ! are you a perfect fool ?" and interfered. I
saw my mother stop her ears then, and I heard her crying.
He walked me up to my room slowly and gi"avely — t am certain
he had a delight in that formal parade of executing justice — and
when we got there, suddenly twisted my head under his arm.
" Mr. Murdstone ! Sir !" I cried to him. " Don't ! Pray don't
beat me ! I have tried to learn, sir, but I can't learn while you and
Miss Murdstone are by. I can't indeed !"
" Can't you, indeed, David ?" he said. " We '11 try that."
He had my head as in a vice, but I twined round him somehow,
and stopped him for a moment, entreating him not to beat me. It
was only for a moment that I stopped him, for he cut me heavily
an instant afterwards, and in the same instant I caught the hand
with which he held me in my mouth, between my teeth, and bit it
through. It sets my teeth on edge to think of it.
He beat me then, as if he would have beaten me to death. Above
all the noise we made, I heard them running up the stairs, and
crying out — I heard my mother crpng out — and Peggotty. Tlien
he was gone ; and tl>e door was locked outside ; and I was lying,
fevered and hot, and torn, and sore, and raging in my puny way,
upon the floor.
How well I recollect, when I became quiet, what an unnatural
92 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
stillness seemed to reign through the whole house ! Huw Avell 1
remember, when my smart and passion began to cool, hov/ \\dcked I
began to feel !
I sat listening for a long while, but there was not a sound. I
crawled up from the floor, and saw my face in the glass, so swollen,
red, and ugly, that it almost frightened me. My stripes were sore
and stiff', and made me cry afi-esh, when I moved ; but they were
nothing to the guilt I felt. It lay hea\ier on my breast than if I
had been a most atrocious criminal, I dare say.
It had begun to grow dark, and I had shut the window (I had
been lying, for the most part, with my head upon the sill, by turns
crying, dozing, and looking hstlessly out), when the key wa.s turned,
and Miss Murdstone came in with, some bread and meat, and milk.
These she put down upon the table without a word, glaring at me
the while with exemplary iSrmness, and then retired, locking the
door after her.
Long after it was dark I sat there, wondering whether anybody
else would come. When this aitpeared improbable for that night, I
undressed, and went to bed ; and, there, I began to wonder fearfully
what would be done to me. Whether it was a criminal act tliat I
had committed ? Whether I should be tiiken into custody, and
sent to prison ? Whether I was at all in danger of being hanged ?
I never shall forget the waking, next morning ; the being cheer-
ful and fresh for the first moment, and then the ' being weighed
down by the stale and dismal oj^pression of remembrance. Miss
Murdstone re-appeared before I was out of bed ; told me, in so
many words, that I was fi*ee to walk in the garden for half an hour
and no longer ; and retired, leaving the door open, that I might
avail myself of that permission.
I did so, and did so every morning of my imprisonment, which
lasted five days. If I could have seen my mother alone, I should
have gone dovm on my knees to her and besought her forgiveness ;
but I saw no one. Miss Murdstone excepted, during the whole time
— except at evening prayers in the parlor ; to which I was escorted
by Miss Murdstone after every body else was placed ; where I was
stationed, a young outlaw, all alone by myself near the door ; and
whence I was solemnly conducted by my jailor, before any one
arose from the devotional postm-e. I only observed that my mothei
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 93
was as far off from me as slie could be, and kept lier face another
"waj so that I never saw it ; and that Mr. Murdstone's hand wan
bound up in a large linen wrapper.
The length of those five days I can convey no idea of to any one,
They occupy the place of years in my remembrance. The way in
which I hstened to all the incidents of the house that made them-
selves audible to me ; the ringing of bells, the opening and shutting
of doors, the murmuring of voices, the footsteps on the staii-s ; to
any laughing, whistling, or singing, outside, which seemed more
dismal than anything else to me in my solitude and disgrace — the
unceitain pace of the hours, especially at night, when I would wake
thinking it was morning, and find that the family were not yet gone
to bed, and that all the length of night had yet to come — the
depressed dreams and nightmares I had — the return of day, noon,
afternoon, evening, when the boys played in the churchyard, and I
watched them fi'om a distance \\itliin the room, beinir ashamed to
show myself at the ^^'ilidow lest they should know I was a prisoner
— the strange sensation of never hearing myself speak — the fleeting
intervals of something hke cheerfulness, which came with eating and
drinking, and Avent away A\ith it — the setting in of rain one evening,
w^th a fresh smell, and its coming down faster and faster between
me and the church, until it and gathering night seemed to quench
me in gloom and fear, and remoi-se — all this appears to have gone
roimd and round for years instead of days, it is so vi\idly and strongly
stamped on my remembrance.
On the last night of my restraint, I was awakened by hearing my
own name spoken in a whisper. I started up in bed, and putting
out my arms in the dark, said :
" Is that you, Peggotty ?"
There was no immediate answer, but presently I heard my name
again, in a tone so very mysterious and awful, that I think I should
have gone into a fit, if it had not occurred to me that it must have
come through the keyhole.
I groped my way to the door, and putting my own lips to the
keyhole, whispered :
" Is that you, Peggotty, dear ?"
" Yes, my own precioas Davy," she replied. " Be as soft as a
mouse, or the Cat '11 hear us."
94 DA-VID COPPERPIELD.
I understood this to mean Miss Murdstone, and was sensible of
the urgency of the case ; her room being close by.
" How 's Mama, dear Pegg'otty ? Is she very angry with me ?"
I could hear Peggotty crpng softly on her side of the keyhole, aa
1 was doing on mine, before she answered. " No. Not very."
" "What is going to be done with me, Peggotty dear ? Do yoM
know?"
" School. Near London," was Peggotty 's answer. I was obliged
to get her to repeat it, for she spoke it the fii'st time quite down my
throat, in consequence of my having forgotten to take my mouth
away from the keyhole and put my ear there ; and though her
words tickled me a good deal, I didn't hear them.
"^Tien, Peggotty?"
" To-morrow."
" Is that the reason why Miss Murdstone took the clothes out of
my di'awers ?" which she had done, though I have forgotten to
mention it.
" Yes," said Peggotty. " Box."
" Shan't I see Mama ?"
" Yes," said Peggotty. " Motning."
Then Peggotty fitted her mouth close to the keyhole, and
dehvered these words through it ^vith as much feeling and earnestness
as a keyhole has ever been the medium of communicating, I will
venture to assert : shooting in each broken httle sentence in a con-
vulsive httle burst of its own.
"Davy, dear. If I ain't ben azackly as intimate with you.
Lately, as I used to be. It ain't becase I don't love you. Just as
well and more, my pretty poppet. It's becase I thought it better for
you. And for some one else besides. Davy, my dai'hng, are you
listening ? Can you hear ?"
" Ye — ye — ye — yes, Peggotty !" I sobbed.
" My ow^n !" said Peggotty, Avith infinite compassion. " What 1
want to say, is. That you must never forget me. For I'll never
forget you. And I'll take as much care of your Mama, Davy. As
ever I took of you. And I won't leave her. The day may come
when she'll be glad to lay her poor head. On her stupid, cross old
Peggotty's arm again. And Til write to you, my dear. Tho agh I
DAVID COrPERFIELD. 95
ain't no scholar. And I'll — I'll — " Peggotty fell to kissing tha
keyhole, as she couldn't kiss me.
" Tliank you, dear Peggotty !" said I. " Oh, thank you ! Thank
you ! Will you promise me one thing, Peggotty ? Will you write
and tell Mr. Peggotty and little Em'ly and Mrs. Gummidge and
Ham, that I am not so bad as they might suppose, and that I sent
'em all my love — especially to tittle Em'ly? Will you, if you
please, Peggotty ?"
The kind soul promised, and we both of us kis.- *^d the keyhole
vrith the greatest affection — I patted it -with my hand, I recollect, as
if it had been her honest face — and parted. From that night there
grew up in my breast, a feeling for Peggotty, which I cannot very
well define. She did not replace my mother ; no one could do that ;
but she came into a vacancy in my heart, which closed upon her,
and I felt towards her something I have never felt for any other
human being. It was a sort of comical affection too ; and yet if she
had died, I cannot think what I should have done, or how I should
have acted out the tragedy it would have been to me.
In the morning Miss Murdstone appeared as usual, and told me
I was going to school ; which was not altogether such news to me
as she supposed. She also informed me that when I was dressed, I
was to come down stairs into the parlor, and have my breakfast.
There, I found my mother, very pale and with red eyes : into whose
arms I ran, and begged her pardon from my suffering soul.
" Oh Davy !" she said. " That you could hurt any one I love !
Try to be better, pray to be better ! I forgive you ; but I am so
grieved, Davy, that you should have such bad passions in your
heart."
Tliey had persuaded her that I was a wicked fellow, and she was
more sorry for that, than for my going away. I felt it sorely. I
tned to eat my parting breakfast, but my tears dropped upon my
bread and butter, and trickled into my tea. I saw my mother look
at me sometimes, and then glance at the watchful Miss Murdstone,
and then look down, or look away.
" Master Copperfield's box there !" said Miss Murdstone, wlien
wheels were heard at the gate.
I looked for Peggotty, but it was not she ; neither she nor Mr
96 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Miirdstone appeared. My former acquaintance, the caiTier, was at
tte door ; the box was taken out to his cart, and hfted in.
" Clara !" said Miss Murdstone, in her warning note.
" Ready, my dear Jane," returned my mother. •• Good bye, Davy
You are going for your own good. Good bye, my child. You will
come home in the holidays, and be a better boy."
" Clara !" IMiss Mm'dstone repeated.
" Certainly, my dear Jane," repHed my mother, who was holding
me. " I forgive you, my dear boy. God bless you !" .
" Clara !" MiSS Murdstone repeated.
Miss Murdstone was good enough to take me out to the cart, and
to say on the way that she hoped I would repent, before I came to
a bad end ; and then I got into the cart, and the azy horse walked
off with it.
CHAPTER V.
I AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME.
We might have gone about half a mile, and my pocket-
handkerchief was quite wet through, when the carrier stopped
short.
Looking out to ascertain what for, I saw, to my amazement,
Peggotty burst from a hedge and climb into the cart. She took me
in both her arms, and squeezed me to her stays until the pressure on
my nose was extremely painful, though I never thought of that till
afterwards when I found it very tender. Not a single word did
Peggotty speak. Releasing one of her arms, she put it down in her
pocket to the elbow, and brought out some paper-bags of cakes
which she crammed into my pockets, and a purse which she put into
my hand, but not one word did she say. After another and a final
squeeze with both arms, she got down from the cart and ran away ;
and, my behef is, and has always been, without a solitary button on
her gown. I picked up one, of several that were rolHng about, and
treasured it as a keepsake for a long time.
The carrier looked at me, as if to enquire if she were coming
back. I shook my head, and said I thought not. " Then come
up," said the carrier to the lazy horse ; who came up accordingly.
Having by this time cried as much as I possibly could, I began to
think it was of no use crying any more, especially as neither Roderick
Random, nor that Captain in the Royal British Navy, had ever
cried, that I could remember, in trying situations. The carrier,
beeiiiGf me in this resolution, proposed that my pocket-handkerchief
should be spread upon the horse's back to dry. I thanked him,
and assented ; and particularly small it looked, under those circum-
stances.
I had now leisure to examine the purse. It was a stiff leather
purse, with a snap, and had three biT^lit sliillings in it, which
Peggotty had evidently polished up with wliiteniug, for my greater
6
98 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
delight. But its most precious contents were two half-crowns folded
together in a bit of paper, on which was written, in my mother's
hand, " For Davy. With my love." I was so overcome by this,
that I asked the carrier to be so good as reach me my pocket-
handkerchief again ; but he said he thought I had better do without
it ; and I thought I really had ; so I wiped my eyes on my sleeve
and stopped myself.
For good, too ; though in consequence of my previous emotions,
I was still occasionally seized with a stormy sob. After we had
jogged on for some httle time, I asked the carrier if he was going all
the way.
" x\ll the way where ?" enquired the carrier.
" There,'' I said.
" Where's there ?" enquired the carrier.
" Near London ?" I said.
" Why that horse," said the carrier, jerking the rein to point him
out, " would be deader than pork afore he got over half the
gi'ound."
" Are you only going to Yarmouth then ?" I asked.
" That's about it," said the carrier. " And there I shall take you
to the stage-cutch, and the stagc-cutch that'll take you to — wherever
it is."
As this was a great deal for the carrier (whose name was Mr.
Barkis) to say — he being, as I observed in a former chapter, of a
phlegmatic temperament, and not at all conversational — I offered
him a cake as a mark of attention, which he ate at one gulp,
exactly hke an elephant, and which made no more impression on his
big face than it would have done on an elephant's.
"Did she make 'em now?" said Mr. Barkis, always leaning
foi-ward, in his slouching way, on the footboard of the cart with an
arm on each knee.
" Peggotty, do you mean, sir ?"
" Ah !" said Mr. Barkis. " Her."
" Yes. She makes all our pastry, and does all om* cooking."
"Do she though ?" said Mr. Barkis.
He made up his mouth as if to whistle, but he didn't whistle. He
sat looking at the horse's ears, as if he saw something new there ; and
sat so, for a considerable time, By-and-by, he said :
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 99
" No sweethearts, I believe ?"
" Sweetmeats did you say, Mr. Barkis ?" For I thought li«
wanted something else to eat, and had pointedly alluded to that
description of refreshment.
" Hearts," said i\Ir. Barkis. " Sweet hearts ; no person walkr
with her !"
" With Peggotty ?"
" Ah !" he said. " Her."
*' Oh no. She never had a sweetheart."
" Didn't she though !" said Mr. Barkis.
Again he made up his mouth to whistle, and again he didn't
whistle, but sat looking at the horse's ears.
" So she makes," said Mr. Barkis after a long interval of reflection,
" all the apple parsties, and does all the cooking, do she ?"
I rephed that such was the fact.
"Well. I'll tell you what," said Mr. Barkis. "P'raps you
might be writin' to her ?"
" I shall certainly wi'ite to her," I rejoined.
" Ah !" he said, slov.iy turning his eyes towards me. " Well ! If
you was writin' to her, p'raps you'd recollect to say that Barkis was
willin' ; would you."
" That Barkis is wilhng," I repeated, innocently. " Is that all
the messasre ?"
" Ye — es," he said, considering. " Ye — s. Barkis is wilhn'."
" But you will be at Blunderstone again to-morrow, Mr. Barkis,"
I said, faltering a little at the idea of my being far away from it
then, " and could give your own message so much l^etter."
As he repudiated this suggestion, however, with a jerk of his
head, and once more confirmed liis pre\ious request by saying,
with profound gravity, " Barkis is willin'. That's the message," I
readily undertook its transmission. While I was waiting for the
coach in the Hotel at Yarmouth that very afternoon, I procured a
sheet of paper and an inkstand, and wrote a note to Peggotty which
ran thus : " My dear Peggotty. I have come here safe. Barkis is
willing. My love to Mama. Yours affectionately. P. S. He
Bays he particularly wants you to know — Barkis is willing^
When I had taken this commission on myself, prospectively, Mr.
Barkis relapsed into perfect silence ; and I, feehng quite worn ouf
100 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
b}' all tliat had happened lately, lay down on a sack in the cart
aiid fell a-^h^ep. I slept soundly until we got to Yarmouth ; wliich
w JUS so entirely new and strange to me in the inn yard to which we
drove, that I at once abandoned a latent hope I had had of meeting
with some of Mr. Peggotty's family there, perhaps even with httle
Eni'ly herself.
'ilie coach was in the yard, shining very much all over, but
witiiout any horses to it as yet ; and it looked in that state as if
nothing was more unlikely than its ever gohig to London. I w?,s
thinking this, and wondering what would ultimately become of my
box, which Mr. Barkis had put down on the yard-pavement by the
pole (he having driven up the yard to turn his cart), and also what
would ultimately become of me, when a lady looked out of a bow-
window where some fowls and joints of meat were hanging up, and
said :
" Is that the httle gentleman from Blunderstone ?"
" Yes, ma'am," I said.
" What name ?" enquired the lady.
" Copperfield, ma'am," I said.
" That won't do," returned the lady. " JSTobody's dinner is paid
for here, in that name."
" Is it Murdstone, ma'am ?" I said.
" If you're Master Murdstone," said the lady, " why do you go
and give another name first ?"
I explained to the lady how it was, who then rang a bell, and
called out, " Wilham ! show the coffee-room !" Upon which a
waiter came running out of a kitchen on the opposite side of the
yard to show it, and seemed a good deal sm-prised when he found
he was only to show it to me.
It was a large long room with some large maps in it. I doubt if
I could have felt much stranger if the maps had been real foreign
countries, and I cast away in the middle of them. I felt it was
tiiking a liberty to sit down, with my cap in my hand, on the
corner of the chair nearest the door ; and when the waiter laid a
cloth on purpose for me, and put a set Df castore on it, I think I
must have turned red all over with modesty. .
He brought me some chops, and vegetables, and took the covers
off in such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I must have given
DAVID COPPERFIELD. lOl
him some offence. But lie greatly relieved my mind by putting a
chair for me at the table, and saying, very aflkbly, " Now six-foot !
come on !"
I thanked him, and took my seat at the board ; but found it ex-
tremely difficult to handle my knife and fork \vith anything like
dexterity, or to avoid splashing myself with the gravy, while he wjis
standing opposite, staring so hard, and making me blush in the
most di'eadful manner every time I caught his eye. After watching
me into the second chop, he said :
" There's half a pint of ale for you. Will you have it now ?"
I thanked him, and said Yes. Upon which he poured it out of
a jug into a large tumbler, and held it up against the hght, and
made it look beautiful.
" My eye !" he said. " It seems a good deal, don't it ?"
" It does seem a good deal," I answered with a smile. For it
was quite dehghtful to me, to find him so pleasant. He was a
twinkling-eyed, pimple-faced man, vnih his hair standing upright
all over his head ; and as he stood with one arm a-kimbo, holding
up the glass to the light with the other hand, he looked quite
friendly.
" There was a gentleman here, yesterday," he said, " a stout gen-
tleman, by the name of Topsawyer — perhaps you know him !"
"No," I said, " I don't think—"
" In breeches and gaiters, broad-bnmmed hat, grey coat, speckled
choaker," said the waiter.
" No," I said bashfully, " I haven't the pleasure — "
" He came in lere," said the waiter, looking at the hght tlirough
the tumbler, " ordered a glass of this ale — would order it — I told
him not — drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him. It
oughtn't to be drawn ; that's the fact."
I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy accident, and
said I thought I had better have some water.
" Why you see," said the waiter, still looking at the light through
the tumbler, with one of his eyes shut up, " our people don't like
tilings being ordered and left. It otfends 'em. But /'ll drink it, if
you like. Fin used to it, and use is everything. I don't lliink it '11
hurt me, if I tln-ow my head back, and take it otf quick. Sliall I.
I rej^hed that he would much oblige me by drinking it, if he
102 DAVID COrPERFIELD.
thought he could do it safely, but by no means ot.ierwise.
When he did throw his head back, and take ir'off quick, I had a
horrible fear, I confess, of seeing him meet the fate of the lamented
Mr. Topsawyer, and fall lifeless on the carpet. But it didn't hurt
him. On the contrary, I thought he seemed the fi-esher for it.
" \Miat have we got here ?" he said, putting a fork into my dish.
*' Not chops?"
" Chops," I said.
" Lord bless my soul !" he exclaimed, " I didn't know they were
chops. Why, a chop's the very thing to take off the bad effects of
that beer ! Ain't it lucky ?"
So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potatoe in the
other, and ate away with a very good appetite, to my extreme
Batisfaction. He afterwards took another chop, and another potatoe ;
and after that, another chop and another potatoe. W^hen we had
done, he brought me a pudding, and having set it before me,
seemed to ruminate, and to become absent in his mind for some
moments.
" How's the pie ?" he said, rousing himself.
" It's a pudding," I made answer.
" Pudding ?" he exclaimed. " WTiy, bless me, so it is ! What !"
looking at it nearer. " You don't mean to say it's a batter
pudding I"
" Yes, it is indeed."
" Why, a batter pudding," he said, taking up a table-spoon, " is
my favorite pudding ! Ain't that lucky ? Come on, httle 'un, and
let's see who'll get most."
The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than once
to come in and win, but what with his table-spoon to my tea-spoon,
his dispatch to my dispatch, and his aj^petite to my appetite, I was
left far behind at the first mouthful, and had no chance with him.
I never saw any one enjoy a pudding so much, I think ; and he
laughed, when it was all gone, as if his enjoyment of it lasted still.
Finding him so very fi-iendly and companionable, it was then that
I asked for the pen and ink and paper, to write to Peggotty. He
not only brought it immediately, 1)ut was good enough to look over
me while I wrote the letter. When J had fiaished it, he asked ma
where T was going to school.
My friendly "Waiter and I.
OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 103
I said, " near London," which was all I knew.
"Oh, my eye !" he said, looking very low-spirited, " I am sorrv
for that."
"Why?" I asked him.
" Oh Lord !" he said, shaking his head, " that's the school whera
they broke the boy's ribs — two ribs — a little boy he was. I should
say he was — ^let me see — how old are you, about ?"
I told him between eight and nine — almost nine.
" That's just his age," he said. " He was eight years and six
months old w hen they broke his first rib ; eight years and eight
months old when they broke his second, and did for him."
I could not disguise from myself, or from the w^aiter, that this was
an uncomfortable coincidence, and inquired how it was done. His
answer was not cheering to my spirits, for it consisted of two dismal
words, " With whopping."
The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard was a seasonable
diversion, which made me get up and hesitatingly enquire, in the
mingled pride and difi&dence of having a purse (which I took out of
my pocket), if there were anything to pay.
" There's a sheet of letter-paper," he returned. " Did you evei
buy a sheet of letter-paper ?"
I could not remember that I ever had.
" It's dear," he said, " on account of the duty. Threepenoo.
That's the way we're taxed in this countiy. There's nothing else^
except the waiter. Never mind the ink. / lose by that."
" What should you — what should I — how much ought I to—
what would it be right to pay the waiter, if you please ?" I stam
mored, blushing.
" If I hadn't a family, and that family hadn't the cowpox," said
the waiter, " I wouldn't take a sixpence. If I didn't support a aged
pairint, and a lovely sister," — here the waiter was greatly aaritatprl- —
" I wouldn't take a farthing. If I had a good place, and was treated
well here, I should beg acceptance of a trifle, instead of taking of ii.
But I hve on broken wittles — and I sleep on the coals" — hero the
waiter burst into tears.
I was very much concerned for his misfortunes, and felt that any
recognitioii short of ninepence would be mere brut^ality and hai-diioss
of heart. Tlierefore I gave him one of my three bright shillings
104 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
which lie received with much humiUty and veneration, and spun up
with his thumb, directly afterwards, to try the goodness of.
It was a httle disconcerting to me, to find, when I was being
helped up behind the coach, that I was supposed to have eaten all
the dinner without any assistance. I discovered this, from over-
hearing the lady in the bow-window say to the guard : " Take care
of that child, George, or he'll burst !" and observing that the women-
Bervants who were about the place came out to look and giggle at
me as a young phenomenon. My unfortunate friend the waiter, wlio
had quite recovered his spirits, did not appear to be disturbed by
this, but joined in the general admiration without being at all con-
fused. If I had any doubt of him, I suppose this half-awakened it ;
but I am inchned to believe that with the simple confidence of a
child, and the natural reliance of a child upon superior years
(qualities I am very sorry any children should prematurely change
for worldly wisdom), I had no serious mistrust of him on the whole,
even then.
I felt it rather hard, I must own, to be made, without deserving
it, the subject of jokes between the coachman and guard as to the
coach drawing heavy behind, on account of my sitting there, and as
to the greater expediency of my travelling by waggon. The story
of my supposed appetite getting wind among the outside passengers,
they were merry upon it likewise ; and asked me whether I was
going to be paid for, at school, as two brothers or three, and whether
I was contracted for, or went upon the regular terms ; with other
pleasant questions. But the worst of it was, that I knew I should
be ashamed to eat anything, when an opportunity ofifered, and that,
after a rather hght dinner, I should remain hungry all night — for I
had left my cakes behind, at the Hotel, in my hurry. My appre-
hensions were realised. When we stopped for supper I couldn't
niuster courage to take any, though I should have liked very much,
but sat by the fire and said I didn't want anything This did not
save me from more jokes, either ; for a husky-voiced gentleman with
a rough face, who had been eating out of a sandwich-box nearly
all the way, except when he had been drinking out of a bottle, said
I was like a Boa Constrictor who took enouo;h at one meal to last
him a long time ; after which, he actually brought a rash out upon
himself with boiled beef.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 105
We had started fiom Yannouth at three o'clock in the afternoon,
and we were due in London about eisjht next mornin<y. It was
Midsummer weather, and the evening was ver^ pleasant. When
we passed through a village, I pictured to myself what the insides
of the houses were hke, and what the inhabitants were about ; and
when boys came running after us, and got up behind, and swung
there for a little way, I wondered whether their fathers were alive,
and whether they were happy at home. I had plenty to think of,
therefore, besides my mind rimning continually on the kind of place
I was going to — which w.'is an awful speculation. Sometimes, I
remember, I resig-ned myself to thoughts of home and Peggotty ;
and to endeavouring, in a confused bhnd way, to recall how I had
felt, and what sort of boy I used to be, before I bit Mr. Murdstone :
which I couldn't satisfy myself about by any means, I seemed to
have bitten him in such a remote antiquity.
The night was not so pleasant as the evening, for it got chilly ;
and being put between two gentlemen (the rough-faced one and
another) to prevent my tumbling off the coach, I was nearly smo-
thered by their falhng asleep, and completely blocking me up. They
squeezed me so hard sometimes, that I could not help crying ouu
" Oh ! if you please !" — which they didn't like at all, because it
woke them. Opposite me was an elderly lady in a great fur cloak,
who looked in the dark mv>re hke a haystack than a lady, she was
wrapped up to such a degree. ITiis lady had a basket with her, and
she hadn't known what to do with it, for a long time, until she
found that on account of my legs bemg short, it could go underneath
me. It cramped and hurt me so, that it made me perfectly misera-
ble ; but if I moved in the least, and made a glass that was in the
basket rattle against something else (as it was sure to do), she gave
me the cruellest poke with her foot, and said, " Come, don't you
fidget. Your bones are young enough, /'ra sure !"
At last the sun rose, and then my companions seemed to sleep
easier. The difficulties under which they had laboured all night,
and which had found utterance in the most terrific gasps and snorts,
are not to. be conceived. As the sun got higher, their sleep became
lighter, and so they gTadually one by one awoke. I recollect bemg
very much surprised by the feint everybody made, then, of not hav-
ing been to sleep at all, and by the uncommon indignation with
lOG DAVID CO PPL II FIELD.
which every one repelled the charge. I labor under the same kind
of astonishment to this day, ha\ing invariably observed that of all
human weaknesses, the one to which our common nature is the least
disposed to confess (I cannot imagine why) is the weakness of hav-
ing gone to sleep in a coach.
What an amazing place London was to me when I saw it in the
distance, and how I beheved all the adventures of all my favorite
heroes to be constantly enacting and re-enacting there, and how I
vaguely made it out in my own mind to be fuller of wonders and
wickedness than all the cities of the earth, I need not stop here to
relate. We app-oached it by degrees, and got, in due time, to the
inn in the Whitechapel district, for which we were bound. I forget
whether it was the Blue Bull, or the Blue Boar ; but I know it was
the Blue Something, and that its likeness was painted up on the
back of the coach.
The guard's eye lighted on me as he was getting down, and he
said at the booking-office door :
" Is there anybody here for a yoongster booked in the name of
Murdstone, fi'om Bloonderstone, Sooffolk, to be left 'till called for ?"
Nobody answered.
" Try Copperfield, if you please, sir," said I, looking helplessly
dow^.
" Is there anybody here for a yoongster, booked in the name of
Mm-dstone, from Bloonderstone, Sooffolk, but owning to the name
of Copperfield, to be left 'till called for ?" said the guard. " Come !
Js there anybody ?"
No. There was nobody. I looked anxiously around ; but the
enquiry made no impression on any of the bystanders, if L except a
man in gaiters, with one eye, who suggested that they had better
put a brass collar round my neck, and tie me up in the stable.
A ladder was brought, and I got down after the lady, who was
like a haystack : not daring to stii', until her basket was removed.
The coach was clear of passengers by that time, the luggage was
very soon cleared out, the horses had been taken out before the lug-
gage, and now the coach itself was wheeled and backed off by some
hostlers, out of the way. Still, nobody appeared, to claim the dusty
youngster from Blunderstone, Suffolk.
More sohtary than Robinson Crusoe, who had nobody to look
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 107
ftt him and see that l?. was solitaiy, I went into the booking-office,
and, by invitation of the clerk on duty, passed behir d the counter,
and sat down on the scale at which they weighed the luggage.
Here, as I sat looking at the parcels, packages, and books, and
mhaling the smell of stables (ever since associated with that morn-
ing), a procession of most tremendous considerations began to march
through my mind. Supposing nobody should ever fetch me, how
long would they consent to keep me there ? Would they keep me
long enough to spend seven shillings ? Should I sleep at night in
one of those wooden binns with the other luo-o-ao-e, and wash
myself at the pump in the yard in the morning ; or should I be
turned out every night, and expected to come again to be left 'till
called for, when the office opened next day ? Supposing there was
no mistake in the case, and Mr. Murdstone had de-vdsed this plan to
get rid of me, what should I do ? If they allowed me to remain
there until my seven shillings were spent, I couldn't hope to remain
there when I began to starve. That would obviously be inconve-
nient and unpleasant to the customer, besides entaihng on the Blue
Whatever-it-was, the risk of funeral expenses. If I started off at
once, and tried to walk back home, how could I ever find my way,
how could I ever hope to walk so far, how could I make sure of any
one but Peggotty, even if I got back ? If I found out the nearest pro-
per authorities, and offered myself to go for a soldier, or a sailor, I
was such a httle fellow that it was most hkely they wouldn't take
me in. These thoughts, and a hundred other such thoughts, turned
me burning hot, and made me giddy with apprehension and dismay.
I was in the height of my fever when a man entered and whispered
to the clerk, who presently slanted me off the scale, and pushed me
over to him, as if I were weighed, bought, dehvered, and paid for.
As I went out of the office, hand ir hand with this new acquaint-
ance, I stole a look at him. He was a gaunt, sallow young man,
with hollow cheeks, and a chin almost as black as Mr. Murdstone's ;
but there the hkeness ended, for his whiskers were shaved off, and
his hair, instead of being glossy, was rusty and dry. He was
dressed in a suit of black clothes which were rather rusty and dry
too, and rather short in the sleeves and legs ; and he had a white
\ieck-kerchief on that was not over-clean. I did not, and do not,
108 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
suppose that this neck-kercliief was all the HneD he wore, bat it wai
all he showed or gave any hint of.
'' You 're the new boy ?" he said.
" Yes, sir," I said. I supposed I was. I didn't know.
" I'm one of the masters at Salem House," he said.
I made him a bow and felt very much overawed. I was so
ashamed to allude to a comr on-place thing like my box, to a
scliolar and a master at Salem J ouse, that we had gone some little
di'^tance from the yard before had the hardihood to mention it.
^\'e turned back, on my humbh insinuating that it might be useful
to me hereafter ; and he told the clerk that the carrier had instruo
tions to call for it at noon.
" If you please, sir,'' I said, when we had accomphshed about the
same distance as before, ''is it far ?"
" It 's down by Blackheath," he said.
" Is that far, sir ?" I diffidently asked.
" It 's a good step," he said. " We shall go by the stage-coach.
It 's about six miles."
I was so faint and tired, that the idea of holding out for six
miles more, was too much for me. I took heart to tell him that I
had had nothing all night, and that if he would allow me to buy
something to eat, I should be very much obliged t^^ him. He
appeared surprised at this — I see him stop and look at me now —
and after considering for a few moments, said he wanted to call on
an old person who lived not ftir oflF, and that the best way would
be for me to buy some bread, or whatever I hked best that was
wholesome, and make my breakfast at her house, where we could
get some milk.
Accordingly we looked in at a baker's window, and after I had
made a series of proposals to buy everything that was bilious in the
shop, and he had rejected them one by one, we decided in favour of
a nice httle loaf of brown bread, which cost me threepence. Then,
at a grocer's shop, we bought an Qg'g and a slice of streaky bacon ;
which stiH left what I thought a good deal of change, out of ths
second of the bright shiUings, and made me consider London a very
cheap place. These pro^^sions laid in, we went on through a great
noise and uproar that confused my weary head beyond descriptioTi,
and over a bridge which, no doubt, was London Bridge (indeed I
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 109
think he told me so, but I '.vas lialf asleep), until "we came to the
poor pei-son's hoase, which wjis a part of some alms-houses, as 1
knew by their look, and by an in^cnption on a stone over the gate,
which said they were estabhshed for twenty-five poor women.
The Master at Salem House lifted the latch of one of a number
>f httle black doors that were all aUke, and bad each a little
liamond-paned -window on one side, and another little diamond'
paned window above ; and we went into the httle house of
one of these poor old women, who was blowing a fire to make a
little saucepan boil. On seeing the master enter, the old woman
stopped with the bellows on her knee, and said something that I
thought sounded hke " My Charley !" but on seeing me come in too, she
got up, and rubbing her hands made a confused sort of half curtsey.
" Can you cook this young gentleman's breakfast for him, if you
please ?" said the Master at Salem House.
" Can I ?" said the old woman. " Yes can I, sure !"
" How 's Mrs. Fibbitson to-day ?" said the Master, looking at
another old woman in a large chair by the fii'e, who was such a
bundle of clothes that I feel gi'ateftd to this hour for not having sat
upon her by mistake.
" Ah, she 's poorly," said the first old woman. " It 's one of her
bad days. If the fire was to go out, through any accident, I verily
beheve she 'd go out too, and never come to hfe again."
As they looked at her, I looked at her also. Although it was a
warm day, she seemed to tliink of nothing but the fire. I fancied
she was jealous even of the saucepan on it ; and I have reason to
know that she took its impressment into the service of boiling my egg
and broiling my bacon, in dudgeon ; for I saw her, with my own dis-
comfited eyes, shake her fist at me once, when those culinary
operations were going on, and no one else was looking. The sun
streamed in at the httle window, but she sat with her own back and
the back of the large chair towards it, screening the fire as if she
were sedulously keeping it w^arm, instead of it keeping her wai-m,
and watching it in a most distrustfid manner. The completion of
the preparations for my breakfast, by reheving the fire, gave her
Buch extreme joy that she laughed aloud — and a very unmelodious
laugh she had, 1 must say.
I sat down to my bro^vn loaf my eg^;, and my rasher of ^acon
110 DAVID COPPEKFIELD.
vrith a bason of milk besides, and i oade a most delicious meal.
Wliile I was yet in tlie full enjoyment of it,, the old woman of the
house said to the Master : ;
" Have you got your flute with you ?"
"Yes," he returned.
'^ Have a blow at it," said the old woman, coaxingly. " Do !"
The Master, upon this, put his hand underneath the skirts of his
coat, and brought out his flute in three pieces, which he screwed
together, and began immechat^ly to play. My impression is, after
many years of consideration, that there never can have been anybody
in the world who played worse. He made the most dismal sounds
I have ever heard produced by any means, natural or artificial. I
don't know what thy tunes were — if there were such tilings in the
performance at all, which I doubt — but the influence of the strain
upon me was, fii'st, to make me think of all my sorrows until I could
hardly keep my tears back ; then to take away my appetite ; and
lastly to make me so sleepy that I couldn't keep my eyes open.
They begin to close again, and I begin to nod, as the recollection
rises fresh upon me. Once more the little room with its open
corner cupboard, and its square-backed chairs, and its angular
little stahcase leading to the room above, and its three peacock's
feathers displayed over the mantelpiece — I remember wondering
when I fii-st went in, what that peacock would have thought if he
had known what his finery was doomed to come to — fades from
before me, and I nod, and sleep. The flute becomes inaudible, the
wheels of the coach are heard instead, and Lam on my journey.
The coach jolts, I wake ^vith a start, and the flute has come back
again, and the Master at Salem House is sitting with his leg's
crossed, playing it dolefully, while the old woman of the house
looks on dehghted. She fades in her tuni, and he fades, and all
fades, and there is no flute, no Master, no Salem House, no Dand
Coppei^field, no anything but heavy sleep.
I dreamed, I thought, that once while he was blowing into this
dismal flute, the old woman of the house, who had gone nearer and
nearer to him in her ecstatic admiration, leaned over the back of his
chair and gave him an affectionate squeeze round the neck, which
stopped his playing for a moment. I was in the middle state
between sleepmg and waking, eithor then or immediately afterwards,
..:^':;«[:^^S^^S
ily unisieal Breakfast
Vi\«Mt«5*^
^, of la''*^'*^
DAVID COPPERFIELD. Ill
for, as he resumed — it was a real fact that he i ad stopped playing
— I saw and heaid the same old woman ask Mrs. Fibbitson, if it
wasn't delicious (ini.'auing t!ie flute), to which Mrs. Fibbitson replied,
" Ay, ay ! Yes !" and nodded at the fire : to which, I am persuaded,
she gave the credit of the whole performance.
When I seemed to have been dozing a long while, the Master at
Salem House unscrewed his flute into the three pieces, put them up as
before, and took me away. We found the coach very near at hand,
and got upon the roof; but I was so dead sleepy, that when we
stopped on the road to take up somebody else, they put me inside
where there were no passengere, and where I slept profoundly, until
I found the coach going at a footpace up a steep hill among green
leav-es. Presently, it stopped, and had come to its destination.
A short walk brought us — I mean the Master and me — ^to Salem
House, which was enclosed ^\•itll a high brick wall, and looked very
dull. Over a door in this wall was a board with Salem House
upon it ; and through a grating in this door we were surveyed when
we rang the bell by a surly face, which I found, on the door being
opened, belonged to a stout man with a bull-neck, a wooden leg,
overhanging temples, and his hah' cut close all round his head.
" The new boy," said the Master.
The man with the wooden leg eyed me all over — it didn't take
long, for there was not much of me — and locked the gate behind
us, and took out the key. We wei-e going up to the house, among
some dark heavy trees, when he called after my conductor.
"Hallo!"
We looked back, and he was standing at the door of a httle lodge,
where he lived, wth a pair of boots in his hand.
" Here ! The cobbler's been," he said, " since you've been out, Mr.
Mell, and he says he can't mend 'em any more. He says there an't
a bit of the original boot left, and he wonders you expect it."
With these words he threw the boots towards Mr. Mell, who
went back a few paces to pick them up, and looked at them (very
disconsolately, I was afraid), as we went on together. I observed
then, for the fii^st tune, that the boots he had en were a good deal
the worse for wear, and that his stocking was just breaking out in
one place, like a bud.
Salem House was a square brick building ^vith wings ; of a i>are
112 DAVID COPPER FIELD.
and uiifurnislied appearance. All about it wsus so very quiet, that X
s;iid to Mr. Mell I supposed the boys were out ; but he seemed sur-
1 rised at my not knowing that it was holiday -time. That all
the boys were at their several homes. That Mr. Creakle, the pro-
prietor, was down by the sea-side with Mrs. and Miss Creakle ; and
that I was sent in hohday-time as a punishment for my misdoing
all of which he explained to me as we went along.
I gazed upon the schoolroom into which he took me, as the most
forlorn and desolate place I had ever seen. I see it now. A long
room ^ith three long rows of desks, and six of forms, and bristling
all round with pegs for hats and slates. Scraps of old copy-books
and exercises litter the dirty floor. Some silk-worms' houses, made
of the same materials, are scattered over the desks. Two miserable
white mice, left behind by their owner, are running up and down in
a fusty castle made of pasteboard and we, looking in all the corners
with their red eyes for an}'thing to eat. A bird, in a cage a very
httle bigger than himself, makes a mournful rattle now and then in
hopping on his perch, two inches high, or dropping from it ; but
neither sings nor chirps. There is a strange unwholesome smell
upon the room, like mildewed corduroys, sweet apples wanting air,
and rotten books. There could not well be more ink splashed about
it, if it had been roofless from its first construction, and the skies had
rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink through the varying seasons
of the year.
Mr. Mell having left me while he took his irreparable boots up-
(ftairs, I went softly to the upper end of the room, observing all this
IS I crept along. Suddenly I came upon a pasteboard placard,
beautifully wTitten, which was l}nng on the desk, and bore these
<^ords — " Take care of him. He hites^
I got upon the desk immediately, apprehensive of at least a great
dog underneath. But, though I looked all round with anxious eyes,
I could see nothing of him. I was still engaged in peering about,
when Mr. Mell came back, and asked me what I did up there.
" I beg your pardon, sir," says I, " if ou please, I'm looking fot
the dog."
" Dog ?" says he. " What dog ?"
" Isn't it a dog, sir ? '
"Isn't what a dog?"
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 113
" That's to be taken care of, sii' ; that bites."
" No, Copperfield," says he gravely, " that's not a dog. That's a
boy. My instructions are, Copperfield, to put this placard on your
back. I am sorry to make such a beginning with you, but I must
do it."
With that, he took me down, and tied the placard, which waa
neatly constructed for the purpose, on my shoulders like a knap-
sack ; and wherever I went, afterwards, I had the consolation of
carrying it.
What I suffered fi'om that placard, nobody can imagine. Whether
it was possible for people to see me or not, I always fancied that
somebody was reading it. It was no rehef to turn round and find
nobody ; for wherever my back was, there I imagined somebody
always to be. That cruel man with the wooden leg, aggravated my
suffering's. He was in authority ; and if he ever saw me leaning
against a tree, or a wall, or the house, he roared out from his lodge-
door in a stupendous voice, " Hallo, you sir ! You Copperfield !
Show that badge conspicuous, or I'll report you !" The playground
was a bare gravelled yard, open to all the back of the house and
the offices ; and I kn^w that the servants read it, and the butcher
read it, and the baker read it ; that everybody, in a word, who came
backwards and forwards to the house, of a morning, when I was
ordered to walk there, read that I was to be taken care of, for I bit.
1 recollect that I positively began to have a di'ead of myself, as a
kind of wild boy who did bite.
There was an old door in this playgTound, on winch the boys had
a custom of carnng their names. It was completely covered with
such inscriptions. In my dread of the end of the vacation and their
coming back, I could not read a boy's name, without enquiring in
what tone and with what emphasis he would read, " take care of
him. He bites." There was one boy — a certain J. Steerforth — who
cut his name very deep and very often, who, I conceived, would
read it in a rather strong voice, and afterwards pull my hair. There
was another boy, one Tommy Traddles, who I dreaded would make
game of it, and pretend to be dreadfully frightened of me. There
was a third, George Demple, who I fancied would sing it. I have
looked, a httle shrinking creature, at that door, until the owners of
all the names — there were five-and -forty of them in the school then,
7
114 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Mr. Mell said — seemed to send me to Coventry by general acclama-
tion, and to cry out, each in his own way, " Take care of him. He
bites !"
It was the same with the places at the desks and forms. It was
the same with the groves of deserted bedsteads I peeped at, on my
way to, and when I was in, my own bed. I remember dreaming
night after night, of being with my mother as she used to be, or of
going to a party at Mr. Peggotty's, or of travelling outside the stage-
coach, or of dining again with my unfortunate friend the waiter, and
in all these circumstances making people scream and stare, by the
unhappy disclosure that I had nothing on but my httle night-shirt,
and that placard.
In the monotony of my hfe, and in my constant apprehension of
the re-opening of the school, it was such an insupportable affliction !
I had long tasks every day to do with Mr. Mell ; but I did them,
there being no Mr. and Miss Murdstone here, and got through
them without disgi-ace. Before, and after them, I walked about —
supervised, as I have mentioned, by the man with the wooden leg.
How vividly I call to mind the damp about the house, the green
cracked flag-stones in the com-t, an old leaky water-butt, and the
discolored trunks of some of the grim trees, which seemed to have
dripped more in the rain than other trees, and to have blown less
in the sun ! At one we dined, Mr. Mell and I, at the upper end of
a long bare dining-room, full of deal tables, and smelling of fat.
Then, we had more tasks until tea, which Mr. Mell drank out of a
blue tea-cup, and I out of a tin pot. All day long, and until seven
or eight m the evening, Mr. Mell, at his own detached desk in the
schoohoom, worked hard with pen, ink, ruler, books, and writing-
paper, making out the bills (as I found) for last half-year. When
he had put up his things for the night he took out his flute, and
blew at it, until I almost thought he would gradually blow his whole
being into the large hole at the top, and ooze away at the keys.
I picture my small self in the dimly-lighted rooms, sitting with
my head upon my hand, hstening to the doleful performance of Mr.
Mell, and conning to-morrow's lessons. I picture myself with my books
shut up, stiU listening to the doleful performance of Mr. Mell, and
listening thi'ough it to what used to be at home, and to the blowing
of the wind on Yarmouth flats, and feehng very sad and solitary
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 115
1 picture myself going up to bed, among tlie unused rooms, and
sitting on my bed-side crying for a comfortable word from Peggotty.
I picture myself coming down stairs in the morning, and looking
through a long ghastly gash of a staircase-window, at the school-
bell hanging on the top of an outhouse, with ^a weathercock above
it ; and di-eading the time when it shall ring J. Steerforth and the
rest to work : which is only second to the time when the man with
the wooden leg shall unlock the rusty gate to give admission to the
awful Mr. Creakle. I cannot think I was a very dangerous charac-
ter in any of these aspects, but in all of them I carried the same
w^arning on my back, '^
Mr. Mell never said much to me, but he was never harsh to me.
I suppose we were company to each other, witliout talking. I for-
got to mention that he would talk to himself sometimes, and grin,
and clench his fist, and grind his teeth, and pull his hair in an un-
accountable manner. B\it he had these pecuharities : and at .first
they frightened me, though I soon got used to them.
CHAPTER YI.
I ENLARGE MY CIRCLE OF ACQUAINTANCE.
T HAD led tliis life about a month, wlien the man with the wooden
leer beo-an to stump about with a mop and a bucket of water, from
which I inferred that preparations were making to receive Mr.
Creakle and the boys. I was not mistaken ; for the mop came into
the schoolroom before long, and turned out Mr. Mell and me, who
lived where we could, and got on how we could for some days,
during which we were always in the way of two or three young
women, who had rarely shown themsels^es before, and were so con-
tinually in the midst of dust that I sneezed almost as much as if
Salem House had been a gTeat snuff-box.
One day I was informed by Mr. Mell that Mr. Creakle would Ije
home that evening. In the evening, after tea, I heard that he was
come. Before bed-time, I was fetched by the man with the wooden
leg to appear before him.
Mr. Creakle's part of the house was a good deal more comfortable
than oure, and he had a snug bit of garden that looked pleasant
after the dusty playgTound, which was such a desert in miniature,
that I thought no one but a camel, or a dromedary, could have felt
at home in it. It seemed to me a bold thing even to take notice
that the passage looked comfortable, as I went on my way^ trem-
bhng, to Mr. Creakle's presence : which so abashed me, when I was
ushered into it, that I hardly saw Mrs. Creakle or Miss Oreaklo
(who were both there, in the parlor), or anything but Mr, Creakle,
a stout gentleman with a bunch of watch-chaiu and sjals, in an arm-
chair, with a tumbler and bottle beside him.
116
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 117
•* So !" said Mr. Creakle. " Tliis is the young gentleman whoso
teeth are to be filed ! Turn him round."
The wooden-legged man turned me about so as to exhibit tlio
placard ; and having afforded time for a full survey of it turned me
about again with my face to Mr. Creakle, and posted himself at Mr.
Creakle's side. Mr. Creakle's face was fiery, and his eyes were small,
and deep in his head : he had thick veins in his forehead, a httle
nose, and a large chin. He was bald on the top of his head ; and
had some thin wet-looking hair that was just turning grey, brushed
across each temple, so that the two sides interlaced on his forehead.
But the circumstance about him which impressed me most, was, that
he had no voice, but spoke in a whisper. The exertion this cost
him, or the consciousness of talking in that feeble way, made his
angry face so much more angTy, and his thick veins so much
thicker, when he spoke, that I am not surprised, on looking back,
at this peculiarity striking me as his chief one.
" Now," said Mr. Creakle. " What's the report of this boy ?"
"There's nothing against him yet," returned the man with the
wooden leg. " There has been no opportunity."
I thought Mr. Creakle was disappointed. I thought Mrs. and
Miss Creakle (at whom I now glanced for the first time, and who
were, both, thin and quiet) were not disappointed.
" Come here, sir 1" said Mr. Creakle, beckoning to me.
" Come here 1" said the man with the wooden leg, repeating the
gesture.
" I have the happiness of knowing your father-in-law," whispered
Mr, Creakle, taking me by the ear ; " and a worthy man he is, and
a man of a strong character. He knows me, and I know him. Do
you know me ! Hey ?" said Mr. Creakle, pinching my ear with
ferocious playfulness.
" Not yet, sir," I said, flinching with the pain.
" Not yet ? Hey ?" repeated Mr. Creakle. " But you ^vill soon
Hey?"
" You will soon. Hey ?" repeated the man with the wooden log.
I afterwards found that he generally acted, with his strong voice, m
Mr. Creakle's interpreter to the boys.
118 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
I was very mucli frightened, and said, I hoped so, if he pleased. 1
felt all this while, as if my ear were hlazing ; he pinched it so hard.
" I'll tell you what I am," whispered ^Ir. Ci'eakle, letting it go at
last, with a screw at parting that brought the water into my eyes.
" I'm a Tartar."
" A Tartar," said the man with the wooden leg.
" When I say I'll do a thing, I do it," said Mr. Creakle ; " and
when I say I will have a thing done, I will have it done."
" — Will have a thing done, I will have it done," repeated the man
with the wooden leg.
" I am a determined character," said Mr. Creakle. " Tliat's what I
am. I do my duty. That's what / do. My flesh and blood" — he
looked at Mrs. Creakle as he said this — " when it rises against me,
is not my flesh and blood. I discard it. Has that fellow," to the
man with the wooden leg, " been here again ?"
"No," was the answer.
"No," said Mr. Creakle. "He knows better. He knows me.
Let him keep away. I say let him keep away," said Mr. Creakle,
strildng his hand upon the table, and looking at Mrs. Creakle, " for
he knows me. Now you have begim to know me too, my young
fi-iend, and you may go. Take him away."
I was veiy glad to be ordered away, for Mrs. and Miss Creakle
w'ert bdtli wiping their eyes, and I felt as uncomfortable for them, as
I did for myself. But I had a petition on my mind which concerned
me so nearly, that I couldn't help saying, though I wondered at my
own courage :
" K you please, sir — "
Mr. Creakle whispered " Hah ! "What's this ?" and bent his eyes
upon me, as if he would have burnt me up with them.
" If you please, sir," I faltered, " if I might be allowed (I am very
sorry indeed, sir, for what I did) to take this writing off, before the
boys come back — "
Whether Mr. Creakle was in earnest, or whether he only did it
to fi*ighten me, I don't know, but he made a burst out of his chair,
before which I precijjitately retreated, without waiting for the escort
of the man with, the wooden leg, and never once stopped until I
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 119
readied my own bedroom, where, finding I was not pursued, I went
to bed, as it was time, and lay quaking, for a couple of hours.
Next moi-ning Mr. Sharp came back. Mr. Sharp was the first mas-
ter, and supenor to Mr. Mell. Mr. M(;ll took his meals witli tlw3 boys,
but Mr. Sharp dined and supped at jMr. Creakle's table. He was a
limp, dehcate-looking gentleman, I thought, with a good deal of
nose, and a way of carrying his head on one side, as if it were a httle
too hea\y for him. His hah* was very smooth and wavy ; but I was
informed by the very first boy who came back that it was a wig (a
second-hand one he said), and that Mr. Sharj) went out every Satur-
day afternoon to get it curled.
It was no otliei- than Tommy Tr addles who gave me this piece of
intelligence. He was the first boy who returned. He introduced
himself by informing me that I should find his name on the right-
hand corner of the gate, over the top bolt ; upon that I said " Master
Traddles V to which he rephcd, " the same," and then he asked me
for a full account of myself and family.
It was a happy circumstance for me that Traddles came back first.
He enjoyed my placard so much, that he saved me from the em-
barrassment of either disclosure or concealment, by presenting me
to every other boy who came back, gi^at or small, immediately on
his arrival, in this form of introduction, " Look here ! Here's a
game !" Happily, too, the greater part of the boys came back low
spii-ited, and were not so boisterous at my expense as I had expected.
Some of them certainly did dance about me like wild Indians, and
the greater part could not resist the temptation of pretending that I
was a dog, and patting and smoothing me lest I should bite, and
saying " Lie down, sir !" and calling me Towzer. This was naturally
confusing, among so many strangers, and cost me some tears, but on
the whole it was much better than I had anticipated.
I was not considered as being formally received into the school,
however, until J. Steerforth arrived. Before this boy, who was
reputed to be a great scholar, and was very good-looKii g, and at
least half-a-dozen years my senior, I was carried as before a magistrate.
He enquired, under a shed in the playground, into the particular
of my punishment, and was pleased to express his opinion that it
120 DAVID COPPERFIELD. '
was " a jolly shame ;" for whicli I became bound to him ever after-
wards.
" T\Tiat money have you got, Copperfield ? " he said, walking
aside with me when he had disj)osed of my affiiir in these terms.
I told him seven shinins2:s.
" You had better give it to me to take care of," he said. " At
least, you can if you like. You needn't if you don't like."
I hastened to comply with his friendly suggestion, and opening
Peggotty's purse, turned it upside dowTi into his hand.
" Do you want to spend anytliing now ? " he asked me.
" No thank you," I replied. *
" You can if you like, you know," said Steerforth. " Say the
word."
" No thank you, sir," I repeated.
" Perhaps you'd like to spend a couple of shilhngs or so, in a
bottle of currant wine Ijy-and-by, up in the bedi'oom ? " said Steer-
forth. " You belong to my bedroom I find."
It certainly had not occurred to me before, but I said. Yes, 1
should like that.
" Very good," said Steerforth. " You'll be glad to spend another
shilling or so, in almond cakes, I dare say ? "
I said. Yes, I should like that too.
" And another shilling or so in biscuits, and another in fi-uit, eh ? "
said Steerforth. " I say, young Copperfield, you're going it ! "
I smiled because he smiled, but I was a little troubled in my
mind, too.
" Well ! " said Steerforth. " We must make it stretch as far
as we can ; that's all. I'll do the best in my power for you. I
can go out when I hke, and I'll smuggle the prog in." With
these words he put the money in his pocket, and kindly told
me not to make myself uneasy ; he would take care it should be all
right.
He was as good as his word, if that were all right which I had a
secret misgi%dng was nearly all wrong — for I feared it was a waste
of my mother's two half-crowns — thougli I had preserved the
piece of paper they were wrapped in : whieh was a precious saving.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 121
When we wont up stairs to bed, lie produced the wliole seven
shillings worth, and laid it out on iny bed in the moonlight,
saying :
" There you are, young Copperfield, and a royal spread you Vf
got !"
I couldn't think of doing the honors of the feast, at my time of
life, while he was by ; my hand shook at the very thought of it. I
begged him to do me the favor of presiding ; and my request being
seconded by the other boys who were in that room, he acceded to it,
and sat upon my pillow, handing round the viands — with perfect
fairness I must say — and^ dispensing the currant wine in a little glass
without a foot, which was his own property. As to me, I sat on
his left hand, and the rest were grouped about us, on the nearest
beds and on the floor.
How well I recollect our sitting there, talking in whispers ; or
their talking, and my res] 'octfully hstening, I ought rather to say;
the moonlight faUing a little way into the room, through the win-
dow, painting a pale window on the floor, and the greater part of
us in shadow, except when Steerforth dipped a match into a phos-
phorus-box, when he wanted to look for anything on the board,
and shed a blue glare over us that was gone directly ! A certain
mysterious feeling, consequent on the darkness, the secresy of the
revel, and the whisper in which everything was said, steals over me
again, and I listen to all they tell me with a vague feeling of solem-
nity and awe, which makes me glad that they are all so near, and
frightens me (though I feign to laugh) when Traddles pretends to
see a ghost in the corner.
I heard all kinds of thin^ about the school and all belono-inof to
it. I heard that Mr. Creakle had not preferred his claim to being
a Tartar without reason ; that he was the sternest and most severe
of masters ; that he laid about him, right and left, every day of his
hfe, charging in among the boys like a trooper, and slashing awav,
unmercifidly. That he knew nothing himself, but the art of slash-
ing, being more ignorant (J. Steerforth said) than the lowest boy in
tiie school ; that he had been, a good many years ago, a small hop-
dealer in the Borough, and had tiiken to the schooling business aftei
122 DAVID COPTERFIELD.
being bankrupt m hops, and making away with Mrs. Creakle'a
money. With a good deal more of that sort, which I wondered
how they knew.
I heard that the man with the wooden leg, whose name was
Tungay, was an obstinate barbarian who had formerly assisted in
the hop business, but had come into the scholastic line with Mr,
Creakle, in consequence, as was supposed among the boys, of his
ha^^nlr broken his leg; in Mr. Creakle's sernce, and ha\T.no- done a
deal of dishonest work for him, and knowing his secrets. I heaid
that with the single exception of Mr. Creakle, Tungay considered the
whole establishment, masters and boys, as his natural enemies, and
that the only dehght of his life was to be sour and malicious. I
heard that Mr. Creakle had a son, who had not been Tungay's
friend, and who, assisting in the school, had once held some remon-
strance with his father on an occasion when its disciphne was
very cruelly exercised, and was supposed, besides, to have
protested against his father's usage of his mother. I heard
that Mr. Creakle had turned him out of dooi*s in consequence,
and that Mrs. and Miss Creakle had been in a sad way, ever
since.
But the greatest wonder that I heard of Mr. Creakle was,
there being one boy in the school on whom he never ven-
tured to lay a hand, and that boy being J. Steerforth. Steer-
forth himself confirmed this when it was stated, and said that
he should like to begin to see him do it. On being asked
by a mild boy (not me) how he w^ould proceed if he did
begin to see him do it, he dipped a match into his phosphorus
box on purpose to shed a glare over his reply, and said he
would commence by knocking him do^n with a blow on the
forehead from the sev^en-and-sixpenny ink-bottle that was always
on the mantelpiece. We sat in the dark for some time, breath-
less.
I heard that Mr. Sharp and Mr. Mell were both supposed to be
wretchedly paid ; and that when there was hot and cold meat for
dinner at Mr. Creakle's table, Mr. Sharp was always expected to say
he preferred cold ; which was again corroborated by J. Steerforth,
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 123
the only parlor-boarder. I heard that Mr. Sharp's wig didn't fit
him ; and that he needn't be so " bounceable" — somebody else said
" bumptious" — about it, because his own red hair was very plainly
to be seen behind.
I heard that one boy, who was a coal-merchant's son, came as a
set-off against the coal bill, and was called on that account " Exchange
or Barter" — a name selected from the arithmetic book as expressing
this arrangement. I heard that the table beer was a robbery of
parents, and the pudding an imposition. I heard that Miss Creakle
was regarded by the school in general as being in love with Steer-
forth ; and I am sure, as I sat in the dark, thinking of his nice voice,
and his fine face, and his easy manner, and his curling hair, I thought
it very likely. I heard that Mr. Mell was not a bad sort of fellow,
but hadn't a sixpence to bless himself "«ith ; and that there was no
doubt that old Mrs. Mell, his mother, was as poor as Job. I thought
of my breakfast then, and what had sounded like " My Charley ! " but"
I was, I am glad to remember, as mute as a mouse about it.
The hearing of all this, and a good deal more, outlasted the
banquet some time. The gi'eater part of the guests had gone to bed
as soon as the eating and drinking were over ; and we, who had
remained whispering and listening half undressed, at last betook
om-selves to bed, too.
" Good night, young Coppei-field," said Steerforth, " I'll take care
of you."
" You're, very kind," I gTatefully returned. " I am much obliged
to you, indeed."
" You haven't got a sister, have you ? " said Steerforth,
yawning.
" No," I answered.
" That's a pity," said Steei-forth. " If you had one,' I should
think she would have been a pretty, timid, little, bright-eyed sort
of girl. I should have liked to know her. Good night, young
Copperfield."
" Good night, sir," I replied.
I thought of him very much after I went to bed, and raised my-
self, I recollect, to look at him where he lay in the moonlight, with
j24 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
his handsome face turned up, and his head redining easily on his
arm. He was a person of gi-eat power in my eyes ; that was oi
course the reason of my mind running on him. No veiled future
dimly glanced upon him in the moonbeams. There was no shadowy
picture of his footsteps, in the garden that I dreamed of — the
garden that I picked up shalls and pebbles in, with httle Em'ly, all
niglt.
CHAPTER VII.
School began in earnest next day. A profound impression was
made upon me, I remember, by the roar of voices in the schoc^l-
»-'^om suddenly becoming hushed as death when Mr. Creakle entered
after breakfast, and stood in the doorway looking round upon us
like a giant in a story-book surveying his captives.
Tungay stood at Mr. Creakle's elbow. He had no occasion, I
i.uought, to cry out " Silence ! " so ferociously, for the boys were all
struck speechless and motionless.
Mr. Creakle was seen to speak, and Tungay was heard, to this
effect.
•* Now, boys, this is a new half. Take care what you're about,
in this new half. Come fresh up to the lessons, I advise you, for T
r^me fresh up to the punishment. I won't flinch. It will be of no
use your rubbing yourselves ; you won't rub the marks out that I
Stiall give you. Now get to work, every boy ! "
When this dreadful exordium was over, and Tungay had stumped
oi.t again, Mr. Creakle came to where I sat, and told me that if I
were famous for biting, he was famous for biting, too. He then
showed me the cane, and asked me what I thought of that, for a
tooth ? Was it a sharp tooth, hey ? Was it a double tooth, hey ?
Had it a deep prong, hey ? Did it bite, hey ? Did it bite ? At
every question he gave me a fleshy cut with it that made me
writhe ; so I was very soon made free of Salem House (as Steerforth
said), and very soon in tears also.
Not that I mean to say these were special marks of distinction,
which only I received. On the contrary, a large majority of the
boys (especially the smaller ones) were visited with similar instances
of notice, as Mr. Creakle made the round of the schoolroom. Half
the establishment was writhing and crjnng, before the day's woi'k
began ; and liow much of it had writhed and cried before the day's
125
126 DAVID COrPERFIELD.
work was over, I am really afraid to recollect, lest I should seem to
exaggerate.
I should think there never can have been a man who enjoyed his
profession more than Mr. Greakle did. lie had a delight in cutting
at the boys, which was like the satisfaction of a craving apix>tite, I
am confident that he couldn't resist a chubby boy, especially ; that
there w;is a fa-^^ination in such a subject^ which made liim restless
in his mind, until he had scored and marked hmi for the day. I
was chubby myself, and ought to know. I am sure when I think
of the fellow now, my blood rises against him with the disinterested
indignation I should feel if I could have known all al>out him "with-
out having ever been in his power ; but it rises hotly, Ixvause I
know him to have been an incapable brute, who had no more right
to be possessed of the great trust he held, than to be Lord High
Admiral, or Commander-in-chief : in either of which capacities, it is
probable that he would have done infinitely less mischief.
Miserable little propitiators of a remorseless Idol, how abject we
were to him ! what a launch in life I think it now, on looking back,
to be so mean and servile to a man of such parts and pretensions !
Here I sit at the desk again, watching his eye — humbly watching
his eye, as he rules a cyphering-book for another victim whose
hands have just been flattened by that identical ruler, and who is
trying to wipe the sting out with a pocket-handkerchief I have
plenty to do. I don't watch his eye in idleness, but because I am
»norbidly attracted to it, in a dread desire to know what he will do next,
and whether it will be my turn to sutler, or somebody else's. A
lane of small boys beyond me, with the same interest in his eye,
watch it too. I think he knows it, though he pretends he don't.
He makes dreadful moutlis as he rules the cyphering-book ; and
now he throws his eye sideways down our lane, and we all droop
over our books and tremble. A moment afterwards we are agaiu
eyeing him. An unhappy culprit, found guilty of imperfect exer-
dse, approaches at his command. The culprit filters ex-cuses, and
professes a determination to do better to-morrow. Mr. Creakle cuts
a joke before he beats him, and we laugh at it, — miserable Httle
dogs, we laugh, with our ^^sages as white as ashes, and our hearts
sinking into our boots.
Here I sit at the desk again, on a drowsy smnmer afternoon. A
IXAVID COPPERFIELD. 127
buzz and hum go up around me, as if the bojs were so nianj blue-
bottles. A cloggy sensation of the lukewarm fat of meat is iip<Hi
me (we dined an hour or two ago), and my head is £k heavy as so
much lead. I would give the world to go to sleep. I sit with my
eye on Mr. Creakle, blinking at him like a young owl ; when sleep
overpowers me for a minute, he still looms through my slumber,
ruling those cyf ihering-books ; until he softly comes behind me and
wakes me to plainer perception of him, with a red ridge across my
back.
Here I am in the playground, with my eye still fasdnated by
him, though I can't see him. The window at a Httle distance from
which I know he is having his dinner, stands for him, and I eye
that instead. K he shows his fece near it, mine a^umes an
imploring and submissive expression. If he looks out through the
glass, the boldest boy (Steerforth excepted) stops in the middle of a
shout or yell, and becomes contemplative. One day, Traddles (the
most unfortunate hoj in the world) breaks thai window accidentally,
with a ball. I shudder at this moment with the tremendous
sensation of seeing it done, and feeling that the ball has boimded
on to Mr. Creakle's sacred head.
Poor Traddles I In a tight sky-blue suit that made his arms and
legs like German sausages, or roly-poly puddings, he was the mer-
riest and most miserable of all the boys. He was always being caned
— I think he was caned every day that half-year, except one hohday
Monday when he was only ruler'd on both hands — and was always
going to write to his uncle about it, and never did. After laying
his head on the desk for a httle while, he would cheer up, somehow,
begin to laugh again, and draw skeletons all over his slate, before
his eyes were dry. I used at first to wonder what comfort Traddles
found in drawing skeletons ; and for some time looked upon him as
a sort of hermit, who reminded himself by those symbols of mortahty
that caning couldn't last for ever. But I beheve he only did it
because they were easy, and didn't want any features.
He was very honorable, Traddles was ; and held it as a solemn
duty in the boys to stand by one another. He suffered for this on
several occasions ; and particularly once, when Steerforth laughed in
church, and the Beadle thought it was Traddles, and took him out.
I see him now, going away in custody, despised by the congrega-
128 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
tion. lie never said who was the real offender, though Le smarted
for it next day, and was imprisoned so many hom"s that he came
forth with a whole churchyard-full of skeletons sw^arming all over his
Latin Dictionary. But he had his reward. Steerforth said there was
nothing of the sneak in Traddles, and we all felt that to be the high-
est praise. For my part, I could have gone through a good deal
(though I was inuch less brave than Traddles, and uothing like so
old) to have won such a recompense.
To see Steerforth walk to church before us, arm-in-arm with Miss
Creakle, was one of the great sights of my life. I didn't think Miss
Creakle equal to little Em'ly in point of beauty, and I didn't love
her (I didn't dare) ; but I thought her a young lady of extraordinary
attractions, and in point of gentihty not to be surpassed. When
Steerforth, in white trousers, carried her parasol for her, I felt proud
to know him ; and believed that she could not choose but adore him
with all her heart. Mr. Sharp and jMr. Moll were both notable per-
sonages in ray eyes ; but Steerforth was to them wiiat the sun was
to two stars.
Steerforth continued his protection of me, and proved a very use-
ful fi-iend ; since nobody dared to annoy one whom he honored with
his countenance. He couldn't — or at all events, he didn't — defend
me from Mr. Creakle, who was very severe with me ; but whenever
I had been treated worse than usual, he always told me that I
wanted a little of his pluck, and that he wouldn't have stood it him-
self ; which I felt he intended for encouragement, and considered to
be very kind of him. There was one advantage, and only one that
I knew of, in Mr. Creakle's severity. He found my placard in his
way, when he came up oi down behind the form on which I sat,
and wanted to make a cut at me in passing ; for this reason it was
soon taken off, and I saw it no more.
An accidental circumstance cemented the intimacy between Steer-
forth and me, in a manner that inspired me with great pride and
satisfaction, though it sometimes led to inconvenience. It happened
on one occasion, when he was doing me the honor of talking to me
in the playground, that I hazarded the observation that something
or somebody — I forget what now — was like something or somebody
in Peregrine Pickle. He said nothing at the time ; but when I was
going to bed at night, asked me f I had got that book.
DAVID COPPER FIELD. 129
1 told him no, and explained how it was that I had read it, and
all those other books of which I have made mention.
" And do you recollect them ?" Steerforth said.
" Oh yes," I replied ; " I had a good memory, and I believed T
recollected them very well."
" Then I tell you what, young Copperfield," said Steerforth, " you
shall tell 'em to me. I can't get to sleep very early at night, and I
generally wake rather early in the morning. We '11 go over 'era
one after another. We '11 make some regular Ai-abian Nights of it."
I felt extremely flattered by this arrangement, and we commenced
carrpng it into execution that very evening. What ravages I com-
mitted on my favorite authors in the course of my interpretation of
them, I am not in a condition to say, and should be very unwilhng
to know ; but I had a profound faith in them, and I had, to the best
of my belief^ a simple, earnest manner of narrating what I did nar-
rate ; and these qualities went a long way.
■The di'awback was, that I was often sleepy at night, or out of
spirits and indisposed to resume the story ; and then it was rather
hard work, and it must be done ; for to disappoint or displease
Steerforth was of course out of the question. In the morning, too,
when I felt weary and should have enjoyed another hour's repose
very much, it was a tiresome thing to be roused, like the Sultana
Scheherazade, and forced into a long story before the getting-up bell
rang ; but Steerforth was resolute ; and as he explained to me, in
return, my sums and exercises, and anything in my tasks that tvas
tx)o hard for me, I was no loser by the transaction. Let me do my-
self justice, however. I was moved by no interested or selfish mo-
tive, nor was I moved by fear of him. I admired and loved him,
and his approval was return enough. It was so precious to me that
I look back on these trifles, now, ^ith an aching heart.
Steerforth was considerate, too ; and showed his consideration, in
one particular instance, in an unflinching manner that was a httle
tantalising, I suspect, to poor Traddles and the rest. Peggotty's
promised letter — what a comfortable letter it was ! — arrived before
" the half" was many weeks old ; and with it a cake in a perfect
nest of oranges, and two battles of cowslip wine. This treasure, as
in duty bound, I laid at the feet of Steerforth, and begged him to
dispense.
8
130 DAVID COPPEllFIELD.
" Now, I '11 tell you wliat, young Copperfield," said he : " the
wine shall be kept to wet your whistle when you are story-telhng."
I blushed at the idea, and begged him, in my modesty, not to
think of it. But he said he had observed I was sometimes hoarse —
a httle roopy was his exact expression — and it should be, every drop,
devoted to the pui-pose he had mentioned. Accordingly, it was
locked up in his box, and drawn off by himself in a phial, and ad-
ministered to me through a piece of quill in the cork, when I was
supposed to be in want of a restorative.. Sometimes, to make it
a more sovereign specific, he was so kind as to squeeze orange juice
into it, or to stir it up with ginger, or dissolve a peppermint drop in
it ; and although I cannot assert that the flavour was improved by
these experiments, or that it was exactly the compound one would
have chosen for a stomachic, the last thing at night and the first
thmg in the morning, I drank it gratefully and was very sensible of
his attention.
AVe seem, to me, to have been months over Peregrine, and
months more over the other stories. The institution never flagged
for want of a story, I am certain ; and the wine lasted out almost
as well as the matter. Poor Traddles — I never think of that boy
but with a strange disposition to laugh, and with tears in my ejes
— was a sort of chorus, in general ; and aflfected to be convulsed
with mirth at the comic parts, and to be overcome with fear when,
there was any passage of an alarming character in the narrative.
This rather put me out, very often. It was a great jest of his, I
recollect, to pretend that he couldn't keep his teeth from chattering,
whenever mention was made of an Alguazil in connexion with
the adventures of Gil Bias ; and I remember, when Gil Bias met
the captain of the ' robbej's in Madrid, this unlucky joker counter-
feited such an ague of terror, that he was overheard by Mr. Creakje,
who was prowling about the passage, and handsomely flogged for
disorderly conduct in the bedroom.
Whatever I had within me that was romantic and dreamy, was
encouraged by so much story-telHng in the dark ; and in that re-
spect the pursuit may not have been very profitable to me. But
the being cherished as a kind of plaything in my room, and the con-
sciousness that this accomplishment of mine was bruited about
among the boys, and attracted a good deal of notice to mo though
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 131
f was the youngest there, stimulated nie to exertion. In a school
carried on by sheer cruelty, whether it is presided o\'er by a dunce
or not, there is not likely to be much learnt. I believe our boys
were, generally, as ignorant a set as any schoolboys in existence ;
they were too much troubled and knocked about to learn ; they
could no more do that to advantage, than any one can do anything
to advantage in a hfe of constant misfortune, torment, and worry.
But my httle vanity, and Steerforth's help, urged me on somehow ;
and without saving me from much, if anything, in the way of *
punishment, made me, for the time I was there, an exception to the
general body, insomuch that I did steadily pick up some crumbs of
knowledge.
In tliis I was much assisted by Mr. Mell, who had a liking for me
that I am grateful to remember. It always gave me pain to ob-
serve that Steerforth treated him vnth. systematic disparagement, and
seldom lost an occasion of woundinof his feelino^s, or inducing^ othera
to do so. This troubled me the more for a long time, because I had
soon told Steerforth, from whom I could no more keep such a
secret than I could keep a cake or any other tangible pos-
session, about the two old women Mr. Mell had taken me to see ;
and I was always afraid that Steerforth would let it out, and twdt
him with it.
We little thought any one of us, I dare say, when I ate my
breakfast that first morning, and went to sleep under the shadow of
the peacock's feathers to the sound of the flute, what consequences
would come of the introduction into those alms-houses of my insig-
nificant person. But the visit had its unforeseen consequences ; and
of a serious sort, too, in their way.
One day when Mr. Creakle kept the he use from indisposition,
which naturally difi'used a lively joy through the school, there was a
good deal of noise in the course of the morning's work. The great
relief and satisfaction experienced by the boys made them difficult
to manage ; and though the dreaded Tungay brought his wooden
leg in twice or thrice, and took notes of the principal offenders'
names, no great impression was made by it, as they were pretty sure
of getting into trouble to-morrow do what they would, and thought
it wise, no doul;t, to enjoy themselves to-day.
It was, properly, a half-hohday ; being Saturday. But as the
132 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
noise in the playground would have disturbed Mr. Creakle, and the
weatlier was not favorable for going out walking, we were ordered
into school in the afternoon, and set some lighter tasks than usual,
which were made for the occasion. It was the day of the week on
which Mr. Sharp went out to get his wig curled ; so Mr. Mell, who
always did the drudgery, Avhatever it was, kept school by himself.
If I could associate the idea of a bull or a bear with any one so
mild as Mr. Mell, I should think of him, in connexion with that
afternoon when the uproar was at its height, as one of those animals,
baited by a thousand dog-s. I recall him bending his aching head,
supported on his bony hand, over the book on his desk, and wretch-
edly endeavoring to got on with his tiresome work, amidst an up-
roar that might have made the Speaker of the House of Commons
giddy. Boys started in and out of their places, playing at puss in
the corner with other boys ; there were laughing boys, singing boys,
talking boys, dancing boys, howling boys ; boys shuffled with their
feet, bovs whirled about him, grinning, making faces, mim'icking hira
behind his back and before his eyes ; mimicking his poverty, his
boots, his coat, his mother, eveiything belonging to him that they
should have had consideration for.
" Silence !" cried Mr. Mell, suddenly rising up, and striking his
desk with the book. " What does this mean ! It's impossible
to bear it. It's maddening. How can you do it to me, boys ?"
It was my book that he struck his desk with ; and as I stood
beside him, following his eye as it glanced round the room, I saw
the boys all stop, some suddenly surprised, some half afraid, and
some sorry perhaps.
Steerforth's place was at the bottom of the school, at the opposite
end of the lono- room. He was lounging vnth his back against the
wall, and his hands in his pockets, and looked at Mr. Mell vnth his
mouth shut up as if he were whistling, when Mr. Mell looked at
him.
" Silence, Mr. Steerforth !" said Mr. Mell.
" Silence yourself," said Steerforth, turning red. " Whom are you
talking to ?"
" Sit down," said Mr. Mell.
" Sit down yourself," said Steerforth, " «n-d mind your business."
There was a titter, and some applause ; but Mr. Mell was bo
,7
-}=?.
0^ "^'^c \\Jl>^^^^
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 183
white, tbat silence immediately succeeded ; and one boy, who had
darted out behind him to imitate his mother again, changed hia
mind, and pretended to want a pen mended.
" If you think, Steerforth," said Mr. Mell, " that I am not ac-
quainted with the power you can establish over any mind here"— •
ha laid his hand, without considering what he did (as I supposed),
upon my head — " or that I have not observed you, within a few
minutes, urging your juniors on to every sort of outrage against me,
you are mistaken."
" I don't give myself the trouble of thinking at all about you,'*
eaid Steerforth, coolly ; " so I 'm not mistaken, as it happens."
" And when you make use of your position of favoritism here, sir,"
pursued Mr. Mell, ^vith his hp trembhng very much, " to insult a
gentleman — "
" A what ? — where is he ?" said Steerforth.
Here somebody cried out, " Shame, J. Steerforth I Too bad !"
It was Traddles ; whom Mr. Mell instantly discomfited by bidding
him hold his tono-ue.
— " To insult one who is not fortunate in life, sir, and who nevef
gave you the least offence, and the many reasons for not insulting
whom you are old enough and wise enough to understand," said
Mr. Mell, with his Hp trembhng more and more, " you commit a
mean and base action. You can sit down or stand up as you please,
sir. Copperfield, go on."
" Yaung Copperfield," said Steerforth, coming forward up the
room, " stop a bit. I tell you what, Mr. Mell, once for all. When
you take the libertjr of calling me mean or base, or anything of that
Bort, you are an impudent beggar. You are always a beggar, you
know ; but when you do that, you are an impudent beggar."
I am not clear whether he was going to strike Mr. Mell, or Mr.
Mell was going to strike him, or there was any such intention on
either side. I saw a rigidity come upon the whole school as if they
had been turned into stone, and found Mr. Creakle in the midst of
us, with Tungay at his side, and Mrs. and Miss Creakle looking in
at the door as if they were frightened. Mr. Mell, with his elbows
on his desk and his face in his hands, sat, for some moments, quite
Btill.
" Mr. Mell," said Mr. Cieakle, shaking hira by the arm ; and hia
134 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
wliisper was so audible now, tliat Tungay felt it unnecessary to re*
peat his words ; " you have not forgotten yourself, I hope ?"
" No, sir, no," returned the Master, showing his face, and shaking
his head, and rubbing his hands in great agitation. " No, sir. No.
I have remembered myself I — no, Mr. Creakle, I have not forgotten
myself^ I — I have renjembered myself, sir. I — I — could wish you
had remembered me a httle sooner, Mr. Creakle. It — ^it would have
been more kind, sir, more just, sir. It would have saved me some-
thinor sir."
Mr. Creakle, looking hard at Mr. Mell, put his hand on Tungay's
shoulder, and got his feet upon the form close by, and sat upon the
desk. After still looking hard at Mr. ISIell from his throne, as he
shook his head, and rubbed his hands, and remained in the same
state of agitation, Mr. Creakle turned to Mr. Steerforth, and said :
" Now, sir, as he don't condescend to tell me, what is this ?"
Steerfortli evaded the question for a little while ; looking in scorn
and anger on his opponent, and remaining silent. I could not help
thinking even in that interv^al, I remember, what a noble fellow ha
was in appearance, and how homely and plain Mr. Mell looked op-
posed to him.
" What did he mean by talking about favorites, then !" said Steer
forth at length.
" Favorites ?" repeated Mr. Creakle, with the veins in his forehead
swelling quickly. " Who talked about favorite ?"
" He did," said Steerforth.
" And pray, what did you mean by that, sir ?" demanded Mr.
Creakle, turning angrily on his assistant.
" I meant, Mr. Creakle," he returned in a low voice, " as I said ;
that no pupil had a right to avail himself of his position of favoritism
to deorrade me."
" To degrade yow f said Mr. Creakle. " My stars ! But give
me leave to ask you, Mr. "What's-your-name ;" and here Mr. Creakle
folded his arms, cane and all, upon his chest, and made such a knot
of his brows that his httle eyes were hardly visible below them ;
" whether, when you talked about favorites, you showed proper respect
to me ? To me, sir," said Mr. Creakle, darting his head at him sud-
denly, and drawing it back again, " the principa of this establish-
ment, ;md your employer."
J)AVID COPPERFIELD. 185
**It was not judicious, sir, I am willing to admit," said Mr. Mell,
** I should not have done so, if I had been cool."
Here Steeiforth struck in.
" Then he said I was mean, and then he said I was base, and then
1 called him a beggar. If / had been cool perhaps I shouldn't have
called him a beggar. But I did, and I am ready to take the con-
sequences of it."
Without considering, perhaps, whether there were any conse-
quences to be taken, I felt quite in a glow at this gallant speech. It
made an impression on the boys too, for there was a low stir among
them, though no one spoke a word.
"I am surprised, Steerforth — although your candor does you
honor," said Mr. Creakle, " does you honor, certainly — I am sur-
prised, Steerforth, I must say, that you should attach such an epithet
to any person employed and paid in Salem House, sir."
Steerforth gave a short laugh.
" That's not an answer, sir," said Mr. Creakle, " to my remark. I
expect more than that from you, Steerforth."
If Mr. Mell looked homely, in my eyes, before the handsome boy,
it would be quite impossible to say how homely Mr. Creakle looked.
" Let him deny it," said Steerforth.
" Deny that he is a beggar, Steerforth ?" cried Mr. Creakle. " Why,
where does he go a begging ?"
" If he is not a beggar himself his near relation's one," said Steer-
/orth. " It's all the same."
He glanced at me, and Mr. Mell's hand gently patted me upon
the shoulder. I looked up, with a flush upon my face and remorse
in my heart, but Mr. MelPs eyes were fixed on Steerforth. He con
tinned to pat me kindly on the shoulder, but he looked at him.
" Since you expect me, Mr. Creakle, to justify myself," said Steer-
forth, " and to say what I mean, — what I have to say is, that his
mother lives on charity in an alms-house."
Mr. Mell still looked at him, and still patted me kindly on the
shoulder, and said to himself, in a whisper, if I heard right : " Yes, I
thought so."
Mr. Creakle turned to his assistant, with a severe frown and labor-
ed politeness.
" Now, you hear what this gentleman says, Mr Mell. Haxe the
13(3 L'AVID COPPEIIFIELD."
goodness, if you please, to set liini right before the assembled
school."
" He is right, sir, -without correction," returned Mr. Mell, in the
midst of a dead silence ; " what he has said. Is true ''
" Be so good then as declare pubhcly, will you," said Mr. Creakle,
putting his head on one side, and rolling his eyes round the school,
" whether it ever came to my knowledge until this moment ?"
" I believe not directly," he returned.
" Why, you know not," said Mr. Creakle. " Don't you, man ?"
" I apprehend you never supposed my worldly circumstances to be
very good," replied the assistant. " You know what my position is,
and always has been, here."
" I apprehend, if you come to that," said Mr. Creakle, with his
veins swelhng again bigger than ever, "that you've been in a
wrong position altogether, and mistook this for a charity school. Mr.
Mell, we'll part if you please. The sooner the better."
" There is no time," answered Mr. Mell, rising, " like the present."
" Sir, to you !" said Mr. Creakle.
"I take my leave of you. Mr. Creakle, and of all of you," said Mr.
Mell, glancing round the room, and again patting me gently on tlie
shoulder. " James Steerforth, the best wish I can leave you is that
you may come to be ashamed erf what you have done to-day. At
present I would prefer to see you anything rather than a friend, to
me, or to any one in whom I feel an interest."
Once more he laid his hand upon my shoulder, and then taking
his flute and a few books fi'om his desk, and leaving the key in it for
his successor, he went out of the school, with his property under his
arm. Mr. Creakle then made a speech, through Tungay, in which
he thanked Steerforth for asserting (though perhaps too warmly) the
independence and respectability of Salem House ; and which he
wound up by shaking hands with Steerforth, while we gave three
cheere — I did not quite know what for, but I supposed for Steerforth,
and so joined in them ardently, though I felt miserable. Mr. Creakle
then caned Tommy Traddles for being discovered in tears, instead of
cheers, on account of Mr. INIell's departure ; and went back to his
sofa, or his bed, or wherever he had come fi'om.
We were left to ourselves now, and looked very blank, I recollect,
on one another. For myself, I felt so much self-reproach and coiitii'
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 187
tion for my part in what had happened, that nothing would have
enabled me to keep back my tears but the fear that Steerforth, who
often looked at me, I saw, might think it unfiiendly — or, I should
rather say, considering our relative ages, and the feeling with which
I regarded him, undutiful — if I showed the emotion which distressed
me. He was very angry with Traddles, and said he was glad he had
caught it.
Poor Traddles, who had passed the stage of lying with his head
upon the desk, and was relieving himself as usual with a burst of
skeletons, said he didn't care. Mr. Mell was ill-used.
" Who has ill-used him, you girl ?" said Steerforth.
" Why, you have," returned Traddles.
" What have I done ?" said Steerforth.
" What have you done ?" retorted Traddles. " Hurt his feehngs,
and lost him his situation."
" His feelings !" repeated Steerforth disdainfully. " His feelings
will soon get the better of it, I'll be bound. His feelings are not like
yours, Miss Traddles. As to his situation — which was a precious
one, wasn't it ? — do you suppose I am not going to write home, and
take care that he gets some money ? Polly ?"
We thought this intention very noble in Steerforth, whose mother
was a widow, and rich, and would do almost anything, it was said,
that he asked her. We were all extremely glad to see Traddles so
put down, and exalted Steerforth to the skies : especially when he
told us, as he condescended to do, that what he had done had been
done expressly for us, and for our cause ; and that he had conferred
a great boon upon us by unselfishly doing it.
But I must say that when I was going on with a story in the
dark that night, Mr. Mell's old flute seemed more than once to
sound mournfully in my ears ; and that when at last Steerforth was
tired, and I lay down in my bed, I fancied it playing so sorrowfully
somewhere, that I was quite wretched.
I soon forgot him in the contemplation of Steerforth, who, in an
easy amateur way, and without any book (he seemed to me to know
everything by heart), took some of his classes until a new master
waa found. The new master came from a grammar-school ; and before
ho entered on his duties, dined in the parlor one day to be intro-
138 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
duced to Steerfortli. Steerforth approved of him highly, and told
us he was a Brick. Without exactly understanding what learned
distinction was meant by this, I respected him greatly for it, and
had no doubt whatever of his superior knowledge : though he never
took the pains with me — not that I was anybody — that Mr. Mell
had taken.
There was only one other event in this half-year, out of the daily
school-hfe, that made an impression on me which still survives. It
survives for many reasons.
One afternoon when we were all harassed into a state of dire
confusion, and Mr. Creakle was laying about him dreadfully, Tungay
came in, and called out in his usual strong way : " Visitors for
Copperfield !"
A few words were interchanged between him and Mr. Creakle, as,
who the \isitors were, and what room they were to be shown into ;
and then I, who had, according to custom, stood up on the an-
nouncement being made, and felt quite faint vnth. astonishment, was
told to go by the back stairs and get a clean frill on, before I re-
paired to the dining-room. These orders T obeyed, in such a flutter
and hurry of my young spirits as I had never known before ; and
when I got to the parlor-door, and the thought came into my head
that it might be my mother — I had only thought of Mr. or Miss
Murdstone until then — I drew back my hand from the lock, and
stopped to have a sob before I went in.
At first I saw nobody ; but feeling a pressure against the door, I
looked round it, and there, to my amazement, were Mr. Peggotty
and Ham, ducking at me -wath their hats, and squeezing one
another against the wall. I could not help laughing ; but it was
much more in the pleasure of seeing them, than at, the appearance
they made. We shook hands in a very cordial way ; and I laughed
and laughed, until I pulled out my pocket-handkerchief and wiped
my eyes.
Mr. Peggotty (who never shut his mouth once, I remember,
during the visit) showed great concern when he saw me do this, and
nudged Ham to say something.
" Cheer up, Mas'r Dav}^, bo' !" said Ham, in his simpering way.
** Why, how you have growed !"
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 139
"Am I groAvn?" I said, drying my eyes. I wis not crying^ at
anj'lhing particular that I know of ; but somehow it made me crv
to see old friends.
" Growed, Mas'r Davy, bo' ? Ain't he gi'owed ?" said Ham.
" Ain't he growed !" said Mr. Peggotty.
Tliey made me laugh again by laughing at each other, and then
we all three laughed until I was in danger of crying again.
" Do you know how mama is, Mr. Peggotty ?" I said. "And
how my dear, dear, old Peggotty is ?"
" Oncommon," said Mr. Peggotty.
" And httle Em'ly, and Mrs. Gummidge ?"
" On — common," said Mr. Peggotty.
There was a silence. Mr. Peggotty, to relieve it, took two pio-
digious lobsters, and an enormous crab, and a large canvas hn^ of
shrimps, out of his pockets, and piled them up in Ham's arms.
" You see," said Mr. Peggotty, " knoA\ing as you was partial to a
little rehsh with your wittles when you was along with us, we took
the liberty. The old Mawther biled 'em, she did. Mrs. Gummidge
biled 'em. Yes," said Mr. Peggotty slowly, who I thought appeared
to stick to the subject on account of having no other subject ready,
" Mrs. Gummidge, I do assure you, she biled 'em."
I expressed my thanks ; and Mr. Peggotty, after looking at Ham,
who stood smiling sheepishly over the shell-fish, without making
any attempt to help him, said :
" We come, you see, the wind and tide making in our favour, in
one of our Yarmouth lugs to Gravesen'. My sister she wrote to me^
the name of this here place, and wrote to me as if ever I chanced to
come to Gravesen', I was to come over and enquire for Mas'r Davy
and give her dooty, humbly wishing him well and reporting of the
fam'ly as they was oncommon to-be-sure. Little Em'ly, you see,
she'll write to my sister when I go back, as I see you and as you
was similarly oncommon, and 90 we make it quite a merry-go-
rounder."
I was obliged to consider a little before I understood what Mr.
Peggotty meant by this figure, expressive of a complete circle of
intelligence. I then thanked him heartily ; and said, with a con-
sciousness of reddening, that I supposed little Em'ly was altered too»
since we used to pick up shells and pebbles on the beach ?
140 DAVID COl^PERFIELD.
" She's getting to be a woman, that's wot's she's getting to be,"
said Mr. Peggotty. " Ask him."
He meant Ham, who beamed with delight and assent over the
bag of shrimps.
" Her pretty face !" said Mr. Peggotty, with his own shining hke
a hght.
" Her learning !" said Ham.
" Her writing !" said Mr. Peggotty. " Why, it's as black as jet \
And so large it is, you" might see it anywheres."
It was perfectly delightful to behold \vith what enthusiasm Mr.
Peggotty became inspired when he thought of his little favorite.
He stands before me again, his bluflP hairy face iiTadiating with a
joyful love and pride, for which I can find no description. His
honest eyes fire up, and sparkle, as if their depths were stirred by
something bright. His broad chest heaves with pleasure. His
strong loose hands clench themselves, in his earnestness ; and he
emphasises what he says with a right arm that shows, in my pigmy
view, like a sledjjre hammer.
Ham was quite as earnest as he. I dare say they would have
said much more about her, if they had not been abashed by tie
unexpected coming in of Steerforth, who, seeing me in a corner
speaking with two strangei*s, stopped in a song he was singing, and
said : " I didn't know you were here, young Copperfield !" (for it
was not the usual \'isiting room), and crossed by us on his way
out.
I am not sure whether it was in the pride of having such a friend
as Steerforth, or in the desire to explain to him how I came to have
such a friend as Mr. Peggotty, thit I called to him as he was going
away. But I said, modestly — Good Heaven, how it all comes back
to me this long time afterwards ! —
" Don't go, Steerforth, if you please. These are two Yarmouth
boatmen — very kind, good people — who are relations of my nurse,
and have come from Gravesend to see me."
" Aye, aye ?" said Steerforth, returning. " I am glad to see them.
How are ye both ?"
There was an ease in his manner — a gay and hght manner it
was, but not swaggering — which I still believe to have borne a kind
of enchantment with it. T still beheve him, in virtue of this car-
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 141
riage, his animal spirits, his delightful voice^ his handsome face and
figure, and, for aught I know, of some inborn power of attraction
besides (which I think a few people possess), to have carried a spell
with him to wliich it was a natural weakness to yield, and which
not many persons could withstand. I could not but see how pleased
they were with him, and how they seemed to open their hearts to
him in a moment.
" You must let them know at home, if you please, Mr. Peg-
gotty," I said, " when that letter is sent, that Mr. Steerforth is very
kind to me, and that I don't know what I should ever do here with-
out him."
" Nonsense !" said Steerforth, laughing, " You mustn't tell them
anything of the sort."
" And if^ Mr. Steerforth ever comes into Norfolk or Suffolk, Mr.
Peggotty," I said, " while I am there, you may depend upon it I
shall bring him to Yarmouth, if he will let me, to see your house.
You never saw such a good house, Steerforth. It 's made out of a
boat."
" Made out of a boat, is it ?" said Steerforth. " It 's the right
sort of house for such a thorough-built boatman."
" So 'tis, sir, so 'tis, sir," said Ham, grinning. " You 're right,
young gen'lm'n. Mas'r Davy bo', gen'lm'n 's right. A thorough-
built boatman ! Hor, hor ! That 's what he is, too !"
Mr. Peggotty was no less pleased than his nephew, though his
modesty forbade him to claim a personal compliment so vocife-
rously.
" Well, sir," he said, bovidng and chuckhng, and tucking in the
ends of his neckerchief at his breast, " I thankee, sir, I thankee ! T
do my endeavours in my line of hfe, sir."
" The best of men can do no more, Mr. Peggotty," said Steer-
forth. He had got his name already.
" I '11 pound it, it 's wot you do yourself, sir," said Mr. Peggotty,
shaking his head, " and wot you do well — right well ! I thankee,
sir. I 'm obleeged to you, sir, for your welcoming manner of me.
I 'm rough, sir, but I 'm ready — least ways, I hope^ I 'm ready, you
understand. My house ain't much for to see, sir, but it 's hearty at
your ser%nce if ever you should come along with Mas'r Davy to see
it. I 'm a reg'lar Dodman, I am," said Mr. Peggotty ; by which he
142 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
meant snail, and this was in allusion to his being slow to go, for he
had attempted to go after every sentence, and had somehow or other
come back again ; " but I wish you both well, and I wash you happy !"
Ham echoed, this sentiment, and we parted with them in the
heartiest manner. I was almost tempted that evening to tell
Steerforth about pretty Em'ly, but I was too timid of mentioning
her name, and too much afraid of liis laughing at me. I remember
that I thought a good deal, and in an uneasy sort of way, about Mr.
Peggotty hanng said that she was getting on to be a woman ; but
I decided that was nonsense.
We transported the shell-fish, or the " relish" as Mr. Peggotty
modestly called it, up into our room unobserved, and made a great
supper that evening., But Traddles couldn't get happily out of it.
He was too unfortunate even to come through a supper hke anybody
else. He was taken ill in the night — quite prostrate he was — in
consequence of Crab ; and after being drugged with black draughts
and blue pills, to an extent which Demple (whose father was
a doctor) said was enough to undermine a horse's constitution,
received a caning and six chapters of Greek Testament for refusing
to confess.
The rest of the half-year is a jumble in my recollection of the
daily stnfe and struggle of our lives ; of the waning summer and
the changuig season ; of the frosty mornings when we were rung
out of bed, and the cold, cold smell of the dark nights when we
were rung into bed again ; of the evening schoolroom dimly lighted
and indifferently warmed, and the morning schoolroom which was
nothing but a great shivering-machine ; of the alternation of boiled
beef with roast beef, and boiled mutton with roast mutton ; of clods
of bread-and-butter, dog's-eared lesson-books, cracked slates, tear-
blotted copy-books, canings, rulerings, hair-cuttings, rainy Sundays,
suet puddings, and a dirty atmosphere of ink surrounding all.
I well remember though, how the distant idea of the holidays,
after seeming for an immense time to be a stationary speck, began
to come towards us, and to grow and grow. How, from* counting
months, we came to weeks, and then to days; and how I then
began to be afraid that I should not be sent for, and, when I learned
from Steerforth that I had been Svint for apd was certainly to go
home, had dim forebodings that I might break my leg first. How
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 143
the breaking-up day clianged its place fast, at last, from tlie week
after next to next week, this week, the day after to-morrow, to-mor-
row, to-day, to-night — when I was inside the Yarmouth mail, and
going home.
I had many a broken sleep inside the Yarmouth mail, and many
an incoherent di"eam of all these things. But when I awoke at
intervals, the ground outside the window was not the playground
of Salem House, and the sound in my ears was not the sound of
Mr. Greakle gi^^ng it to '^^addles, but the sound of the ccachmau
touchuig up the horses.
CHAPTER VIII.
MY HOLIDAYS. ESPECIALLY ONE HAPPY AFTERNOON.
When we arrived before day at tlie inn wliere tlie mail stopped,
wliicli was not the inn wliere my friend the waiter lived, I was
shown up to a nice little bedroom, with Dolphin painted on the
door. Very cold I was I know, notwithstanding the hot tea they
had given me before a large fire down-stairs ; and very glad I was
to turn into the Dolphin's bed, pull the Dolphin's blankets round
my head, and go to sleep.
Mr. Barkis the carrier was to call for me in the morning at nine
o'clock. I got up at eight, a little giddy from the shortness of my
night's rest, and was ready for him before the appointed time. He
received me exactly as if not five minutes had elapsed since we were
last together, and I had only been into the hotel to get change for
sixpence, or something of that sort.
As soon as I and my box were in the cart, and the carrier sealed,
the lazy horse walked away with us all at his accustomed pace.
" You look very well, Mr. Barkis," I said, thinking he would like
to know it.
Mr. Barkis rubbed his cheek with his cufF, and then looked at his
cuff as if he expected to find some of the bloom upon it ; but made
no other acknowledgment of the compliment.
" I gave your message, Mr. Barkis," I said ; " I wrote to
Peggotty."
"Ah!" said Mr. Barkis.
Mr. Barkis seemed gruff, and answered drily.
" Wasn't it right, Mr. Barkis ?" I asked, after a httle hesitation.
" Why, no," said Mr. Barkis.
" Not the message ?""
" The message was right enough, perhaps," said Mr. Barkis ; " but
it come to an end there."
Not understanding what he meant, I repeated inquisitively : " Came
to an end, Mr. Barkis ?"
144
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 145
" Nothing come of it, ' he explained, looking at me sideways.
** No answer."
" There was an answer expected, was there, Mr. Barkis ?" said I,
opening my eyes. For this was a new light to me.
" When a man says he's wilKn'," said Mr. Barkis, turning his
glance slowly on me again, " it's as much as to say, that man's a
waitin' for a answer."
" Well, Mr. Barkis ?"
" Well," said Mr. Barkis, carrying his eyes back to his horse's
ears ; " that man's been a waitin' for a answer ever since."
" Have you told her so, Mr. Barkis ?"
" N — no," growled Mr. Barkis, reflecting about it. " I ain't got
no call to go and tell her so. I never said six words to her myself.
/ ain't a goin' to tell her so."
" Would you like me to do it, Mr. Barkis ?" said I, doubtfully.
" You might tell her if you would," said Mr. Barkis, with another
glow look at me, " that Barkis was a waitin' for a answer. Says you
—what name is it ? "
" Her name ? "
" Ah ! '* said Mr. Barkis, with a nod of his head.
" Peggotty."
" Chrisen name ? Or nat'ral name ? " said Mr. Barkis.
" Oh, it's not her christian name. Her christian n^me is Clara."
" Is it though ! " said Mr. Barkis.
He seemed to find an immense fund of reflection in this circum-
stance, and sat pondering and inwardly whisthng for some time.
" Well ! " he resumed at length. " Says you, ' Peggotty ! Barkis
is a waitin' for a answer.' Says she, perhaps, ' Answer to what ? *
Says you, ' To what I told you.' ' ^Tiat is that ? ' says she. ' Bar-
kis is wilhn',' says you."
Tliis extremely artful suggestion, Mr. Barkis accompanied with a
nudge of his elbow that gave me quite a stitch in my side. After
that, he slouched over his horse in his usual manner ; and made no
other reference to the subject except, half an hour afterwards, taking
a piece of chalk from his pocket, and writing up, inside the tilt of
the cart, " Clara Peggotty " —apparently as a private memorandum.
Ah, what a strange feeling it was to be going home when it was
not home, and to find that eve' y object I looked at, reminded me of
9
14G DAVID COrrERFlELD.
the happy old home, which was Hke a dieam I could never dream
Egain ! Ihe days when my mother and I and Peggotty were all in
all to one another, and there was no one to come between us, rose up
before me so sorrowfully on the road, that I am not sure I was glad
to be there — not sure but that I would rather have remained away,
and forgotten it in Steerforth's company. But there I was; and
soon I was at our house, whei-e the bare old elm trees wrung their
many hands in the bleak mntry air, and shreds of the old rooks'
nests drifted away upon the wdnd.
The carrier put my box down at the garden gate, and left me. I
walked along the path towards the house, glancing at the windows,
and fearing at every step to see Mr. Murdstone or Miss Murdstone low-
ering out of one of them. No face appeared, however ; and being come
to the house, and knowing how to open the door, before dark, with-
out knocking, I w^ent in with a quiet, timid step.
God knows how infantine the memory may have been, that was
awakened within me by the sound of my mother's voice in the old
parlor, when I set foot in the hall. She was singing in a low tone.
I think I must have lain in her arms, and heard her singing so to me
when I was but a baby. The strain was new to me, and yet it was
BO old that it filled my heart brim-full ; like a friend come back from
a long absence.
I beheved, from the sohtaiy and thoughtful way in which my mo-
ther murmured her song, that she was alone. And I went softly
into the room. She w' as sitting by the fire, suckling an infant, whose
tiny hand she held against her neck. Her eyes were looking down
upon its face, and she sat singing to it. 1 was so far right, that she
had no other companion.
I spoke to her, and she started, and cried out. But seeing me, she
called me her dear Da^y, her own boy ! and coming half across the
room to meet me, kneeled down upon the ground and kissed me, and
laid my head down on her bosom near the little creature that was
nestling there, and [»ut its hand up to my lips.
I wish T had died. I wish I had died then, with that feeling in
ray heart ! I should have been more fit for Heaven than I ever hsixe
been since.
" He is your brother," said my mother, fondling me. " Davy, my
pretty boy ! My poor child !" Then she kissed me more and more,
Changes at Home.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 147
Mid clasped me round the neck. Tliis she was doing when Peg-
gotty came ruunmg in, and bounced down on the groimd beside us,
and went mad about us both for a quai-ter of an hour.
It seemed that I had not been expected so soon, the carrier beiniT
much before his usual time. It seemed, too, that Mr. and Miss
Murdstone had gone out upon a visit in the neighbourhood, and
would not return before night. I had never hoped for this. I had
never thought it possible that we three could be together undis-
turbed, once more ; and I felt, for the time, as if the old days were
come back.
We dined together by the fireside. Peggotty was in attendance
to wait upon us, but my mother wouldn't let her do it, and made
her dine with us. I had my own old plate, with a brown view of a
man-of-war in full sail upon it, which Peggotty had hoarded some-
where all the time I had been away, and would not have had broken,
she said, for a hundred pounds. I had my own old mug with
Da\dd on it, and my own old httle knife and fork that wouldn't
cut.
While we were at table, I thought it a favorable occasion to tell
Peggotty about Mr. Barkis, who, before I had finished what I had
to tell her, began to laugh, and thi-ew her apron over lier face.
" Peggotty !" said my mother. " What's the matter ?"
Peggotty only laughed the more, and held her apron tight over
her face when my mother tried to pull it away, and sat as if her
head were in a bag.
" What are you doing, you stupid creature ?" said my mother,
laughing.
" 0, drat the man !" cried Peggotty. " He wants to marry
me."
" It would be a very good match for you ; wouldn't it ?" said my
mother.
" Oh ! I don't know," said Peggotty. " Don't ask me. I
wouldn't have him if he was made of gold. Nor I wouldn't have
anybody."
" Then, why don't you teU Kim so, you ridiculous thing ?" said jny
mother.
" Tell him so," retorted Peggotty, looking out of her apron. " He
148 DAVID C 0 P P E R F I E L D .
has never said a word to rae about it. He knows better. If In;
was to make so bold as say a word to me, I should slap his face."
Her own was as red as ever I saw it, or any other face, I think ;
but she only covered it again, for a few moments at a time, when slit
was taken \Ndth a \dolent fit of laughter ; and after two or three of
those attacks, went on with her dinner.
I remarked that my mother, though she smiled when Peggotty
looked at her, became more serious and thoughtful. I had seen at
first that she was changed. Her face was very pretty still, but it
looked careworn, and too delicate ; and her hand was so thin and
white that it seemed to me to be almost transparent. But the change
to which I now refer was superadded to this : it was in her manner,
which became anxious and fluttered. At last she said, putting out
her hand, and laying it affectionately on the hand of her old
servant,
" Peggotty, dear, you are not going to be married ?"
"Me, ma'am?" returned Peggotty, staring. "Lord bless you,
no!"
" Not just yet ?" said my mother, tenderly.
" Never !" cried Peggotty.
My mother took her hand, and said :
" Don't leave me, Peggotty. Stay with me. It will not be foi
long, perhaps. What should I ever do without you !"
" Me leave you, my precious !" cried Peggotty. " Not for all the
world and his wife. Why, what's put that in your silly httle head f
— For Peggotty had been used of old to talk to my mother some-
times like a child.
But my mother made no answer, except to thank her, and Peg-
gotty went running on in her own fashion.
" Me leave you ? I think I see myself. Peggotty go away from
you ? I should hke to catch her at it ! No, no, no," said Peggotty,
shaking her head, and folding her arms ; " not she, my dear. It
isn't that there ain't some Cats that would be well enough pleased
if she did, but they shan't be pleased. They shall be aggravated.
I'll stay with you till I am a cross cranky old woman. And when
I'm too deaf, and too lame, and too bhnd, and too mumbly for want
of teeth, to be of any use at all, even to be found fault with, then ]
Bhall go to my Davy, and ask him lo take me in."
DAVID COrPERFlELD. 149
" And Peg'gotty," says I, " I shall Be glad to see you, aud I'D
make you as welcome as a queen."
"Bless your dear heart !" cried Peggotty. " I know you will i"
And she kissed me beforehand, in grateful acknowledgment of my
hospitality. After that, she covered her head up with her apron
again, and had another laugh about Mr. Barkis. After that, she
took the baby out of its little cradle, and nursed it. After that, she
cleared the dinner-table ; after that, she came in with another cap on,
and her work-box, and the yard-measure, and the bit of wax candle,
ail just the same as ever.
We sat round the fire, and talked delightfully. I told them what
a hard master Mr. Creakle was, and they pitied me very much. I
told them what a fine fellow Steerforth was, and what a patron of
mine, and Peggotty said she would walk a score of miles to see him.
T took the little baby in my arms when it was awake, and nui*sed it
lovingly. When it was asleep again, I crept close to my mother's
side according to my old custom, broken now a long time, and sat
with my arms embracing her waist, and my little red cheek on her
shoulder, and once more felt her beautiful hair drooping over me —
like an angel's wing as I used to think, I recollect — and was very
happy indeed.
While I sat thus, looking at the fire, and seeing pictures in the
red-hot coals, I almost believed that I had never been away ; that
Mr. and Miss Murdstone were such pictures, and would vanish when
tlie fire got low ; and that there was nothing real in all that I
remembered, save my mother, Peggotty, and I.
Peggotty darned away at a stocking as long as she could see, and
then sat with it drawn on her left hand hke a glove, and her needle
in her right, ready to take another stitch whenever there was a blaze.
I cannot conceive whose stockings they can have been that Peggotty
was always darning, or where such an unfailing supply of stockings
in want of darning can have come from. From my earliest infancy
she seems to have been always employed in that class of needlework,
and never by any chance in any other.
" I wonder," said Peggotty, who wtis sometimes seized with a fit
of wondering on some most unexpected topic, " what's become of
Davy's great-aunt ? "
150 DAVID COP PER FIELD.
" Lor, Peggotty ! " observed my mother, rousing herself fioiu a
reverie, *' what nonsense you talk ! "
" Well, but I really do wonder, ma'am," said Peggotty.
" What can have put such a person in your head ? " inquired my
mother. " Is there nobody else in the world to come there ? "
" I don't know how it is," said Peggotty, " unless it's on account
of being stupid, but my head never can pick and choose its people.
They come and they go, and they don't come and they don't go,
just as they like. I wonder what's become of her ? "
" How absurd you are, Peggotty," returned my mother. " One
would suppose you wanted a second visit from her."
" Lord forbid ! " cried Peggotty.
" Well then, don't talk about such uncomfortable things, there's a
good soul," said my mother. " Miss Betsey is shut up in her cottage
by the sea, no doubt, and will remain there. At all events, she is
Hot likely ever to trouble us again."
" No ! " mused Peggotty. " No, that ain't likely at all. — I won-
der, if she was to die, whether she'd leave Davy anything ? "
" Good gracious me, Peggotty," returned my mother, " what a
nonsensical woman you are ! when you know that she took offence
at the poor dear boy's ev^er being born at all ! "
" I suppose she wouldn't be inchned to forgive him now," hinted
Peggotty.
" Why should she be inclined to forgive him now ? " said my
mother, rather sharply.
" Now that he's got a brother, I mean," said Peggotty.
My mother immediately began to cry, and wondered how Peg
gotty dared to say such a thing.
" As if this poor little innocent in its cradle had ever done any
harm to you or anybody else, you jealous thing ! " said she. " Yon
had much better go and marry Mr. Barkis, the carrier. Why don't
you ? "
"I should make !Miss Murdstone happy, if I was to," said
Peggotty.
" What a bad disposition you have, Peggotty ! " returned my
mother. "You are as jealous of Miss Murdstone as it is possible for
a ridiculous creatui*e to be. You want to keep the keys yourself, and
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 151
give out all tlie things, I suppose ? I shouldn't be surprised if you
did. Wlien you know that she only does it out of kindness and the
best intentions ! You know she does, Peggotty — you know it well.*'
Peggotty muttered something to the effect of " Bother the best
mtentions ! " and somethinij else to the effect that there was a httle
too much of the best intentions going on.
" I know what you mean, you cross thing," said my mother. " I
understand you, Peggotty, perfectly. You know I do, and I
wonder you don't color up like fire. But one point at a time. Miss
Murdstone is the point now, Peggotty, and you shan't escape from
it. Haven't you heard her say, over and over again, that she
thinks I am too thoughtless and too — a — a — "
" Pretty," suggested Peggotty.
" Well," returned my mother, half laughing, " and if she is so
silly as to say so, can I be blamed for it ? "
" No one says you can," said Peggotty.
" No, I should hope not, indeed ! " returned my mother.
" Haven't you heard her say, over and over again, that on this
account she wishes to spare me a great deal of trouble, which she
thinks I am not suited for, and which I really don't know mysc^lf
that I am suited for; and isn't she up early and late, and going to
and fro continually — and doesn't she do all sorts of things, and
grope into all sorts of places, coal-holes and pantries and I don't
know where, that can't be very agreeable — and do you mean to
insinuate that there is not a sort of devotion in that ? "
" I don't insinuate at all," said Peggotty.
" You do, Peggotty," returned my mother. " You never do
anything else, except your wc 'k. You are always insinuating. You
revel in it. And when yoi> talk of Mr. Murdstone's good inten-
tions—"
" I never talked of 'em," said Peggotty.
"No, Peggotty," returned my mother, "but you insinuated.
That's what I told you just now. That's the worst of you. You
will insinuate. I said, at the moment, that I understood you, and
you see I did. \Yhen you talk of Mr. Murdstone's good intentions,
and pretend to slight them (for I don't l>elieve you really do, in your
heart, Peggotty), you must be as well cominced as I am how go-jd
152 ' DAVID COPPERFIELD.
they are, and how they actuate him in everything. If he aoems to
have been at all stem with a certain person, Peggotty — you under-
stand, and so I ara sure does Davy, that I am not alluding to any-
body present — it is solely because he is satisfied that it is for a certain
person's benefit. He naturally loves a cerfain person, on my
account ; and acts solely for a certain person's good. He is better
able to judge of it than I ara ; for I very well know that I am a
Weak, light, girhsh creature, and that he is a firm, grave, serious
man. And he takes," said my mother, with the tears which were
engendered in her affectionate nature, stealing down her face, " he
takes great pains with me ; and I ought to be very thankful to him,
and very submissive to him even in my thoughts ; and when I am
not, Peggotty, I worry and condemn myself, and feel doubtful of my
own heart, and don't know what to do."
Peggotty sat with her chin on the foot of the stocking, looking
silently at the fire.
" There, Peggotty," said my mother, changing her tone, " don't
let us fall out with one another, for I couldn't bear it. You are my
true fi*iend, I know, if I have any in the world. When I call you
a ridiculous creature, or a vexatious thing, or anything of that sort,
Peggotty, I only mean that you are my true friend, and always have
been, ever since the night when Mr. Copperfield first brought me
home here, and you came out to the gate to meet me."
Peggotty was not slow to respond, and ratified the treaty of
friendship by giving me one of her best hugs. I think I had some
glimpses of the real character of this convei'sation at the time ; but
I am sure, now, that the good creature originated it, and took her
part in it, merely that my mother might comfort herself with the
little contradictory summary in which she had indulged. The
design was efficacious ; for I remember that my mother seemed
more at ease during the rest of the evening, and that Peggotty
observed her less.
When we had had our tea, and the ashes were thrown up. and
the candles snuffed, I read Peggotty a chapter out of the Crocodile
Book, in remembrance of old times — she took it out of her pocket :
I don't know v/hether she had kept it there ever since — and then
we talked about Salem House, which Drought me round again to
DAVID COPPER FIELD. 153
Steerforth, who was my great subject. We were very happy ; j.nd
that evening, as the last of its race, and destined evermore to close
that volume of my life, will nevei pass out of my memory.
It was almost ten o'clock before we heard the sound of wheels.
AVe all got up then ; and my mother said hurriedly that, as it was
so late, and Mr. and Miss Murdstone approved of early hours for young
people, perhaps I had better go to bed. I kissed her, and went up
stairs with my candle directly, before they came in. It appeared to
my childish fancy, as I ascended to the bedroom where I had been
imprisoned, that they brought a cold blast of air into the house
which blew away the old familiar feeling like a feather.
I felt uncomfortable about going down to breakfast in the
morning, as I had never set eyes on Mr. Murdstone since the day
when I committed my memorable offence. However, as it must be
done, I went down, after two or three false starts half-way, and as
many runs back on tip-toe to my own room, and presented myself
m the parlor.
He was standing before the fire with his back to it, while Miss
Murdstone made the tea. He looked at me steadily as I entered,
but made no sign of recognition whatever.
I went up to him, after a moment of confusion, and said : " I beg
your pardon, sir. I am very sorry for what I did, and I hope 3'ou
will forgive me."
" I am glad to hear you are sorry, Da\dd," he replied.
The hand he gave me was the hand I had bitten. I could not
restrain my eye fi'om resting for an instant on a red spot upon it,
but it was not so red as I turned, when I met that sinister expres-
sion in his face.
" How do you do, ma'am ?" I said to Miss ^f urdstone.
" Ah, dear me !" sighed Miss Murdstone, gi^'ing me the tea-caddy
scoop instead of her fingers. " How long are the hohdays ?"
** A month, ma'am."
" Counting from when ?"
" From to-day, ma'am."
" Oh !" said Miss Murdstone. " Then here's one day off."
She kept a calendar of the holidays in this way, and every mom-
iiig checked a day off in exactly the "same manner. She did it
154 DAVID COPTERFIELD.
gloomily until she came to ten, but when she got into two figures
she became more hopeful, and, as the time advanced, even jocular.
It was on this very first day that I had the misfortune to throw
her, though she was not subject to such weaknesses in general, into
a state of \iolent consternation. I came into the room where she
and my mother were sitting ; and the baby (who was only a few
weeks old) being on my mother's lap, I took it very carefully in my
arms. Suddenly Miss Murdstone gave such a scream that I all but
dropped it.
" My dear Jane !" cried my mother.
" Good heavens, Clara, do you see ?" exclaimed Miss Murd-
stone.
" See what, my dear Jane ?" said my mother ; " where ?"
" He 's got it !" cried Miss Murdstone. " The boy has got the
baby!"
She was limp with hon*or ; but stiffened herself to make a dart
at me, and take it out of my arms. Then she turned faint ;
and was so very ill, that they were obliged to give her cherry-
brandy. I was solemnly interdicted by her, on her recovery,
from touching my brother any more on any pretence whatever ;
and my poor mother, who, I could see, washed other^vise, meekly
confirmed the interdict, by saying : " No doubt you are right, my
dear Jane."
On another occasion, when we three were together, this same
dear baby — it was truly dear to me, for our mother's sake — was
the innocent occasion of Miss Murdstone's going into a passion.
My mother, who had been looking at its eyes as it lay upon her lap,
said :
" Davy ! come here !" and looked at mine.
I saw ^liss Murdstone lay her beads down.
" I declare," said my mother, gently, " they are exactly alike. I
suppose they are mine. I think they are the color of mine. But
they are wonderfully ahke."
" What are you talking about, Clara ?" said Miss Murdstone.
" My dear Jane," faltered my mother, a little abashed by the hnr^li
tone of this inquiry, " I find that the baby's eyes and Davy's -dre
exactly alike." •
DAVID COrPERFIELD. 1G5
"Clara!" said Miss Murdstone, rising angrily, "you are a posi-
tive fool som(itimes."
" My dear Jane," remonstrated my mother.
" A positive fool," said Miss Murdstone. " Who else could com-
pare my brother's baby with your boy ? They are not at all ahke.
They are exactly unlike. They are utterly dissimilar in all respects.
I hope they will ever remain so. I will not sit here and hear such
comparisons made." With that she stalked out, and made the door
bang after her.
In short, I was not a favorite with Miss Murdstone. In short, I
was not a favorite there with anybody, not even with myself; for
those who did like me could not show it, and those who did not,
showed it so plainly that I had a sensitive consciousness of always
appearing constrained, boorish, and dull.
I felt that I made them as uncomfortable as they made me. If I
came into the room where they were, and they were talking together
and my mother seemed cheerful, an anxious cloud would steal over
her face from the moment of my entrance. If Mr. Murdstone were
in his best humor, I checked him. If Miss Murdstone were in her
worst, I intensified it. I had perception enough to know that my
mother was the \dctim always ; that she was afraid to speak to me
or be kind to me, lest she should give them some ofience by her
manner of doing so, and receive a lecture afterwards ; that she was
not only ceaselessly afi-aid of her own offending, but of my offending,
and uneasily watched their looks if I only moved. Therefore I
resolved to keep myself as much out of their way as I could ; and
many a wintry hour did I hear the church-clock strike, when I was
sitting in my cheerless bedroom, wrapped in my httle great-coat,
poring over a book.
In the evening, sometimes, I went and sat with Peggotty in the
kitchen. There I was comfortable, and not afraid of being myself.
But neither of these resources was approved of in the parlor. The
tormenting humor which was dominant there stopped them both.
[ was still held to be necessary to my poor mother's training, and,
as one ot her trials, could not be suffered to absent myself.
" Da\id," said Mr. Murdstone, one day after dinner when I was
going to leave the room as usual ; " I am soiTy to observe that you
are of a sullen disposition."
166 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" As sulky as a bear !" said Miss Murdstone.
I stood still, and hung my head.
" Now, David," said Mr. Murdstone, " a sullen obdurate disposition
is, of all tempei*s, the worst."
" And the boy's is, of all such dispositions that ever I have seen,"
remarked his sister, " the most confirmed and stubborn. I think,
my dear Clara, even you must observe it ?"
" I beg your pardon, my dear Jane," said my mother, " but are
you quite sure — I am certain you '11 excuse me, my dear Jane — ■
that you understand Davy ?"
" 1 should be somewhat ashamed of myself, Clara," returned Miss
Murdstone, " if I could not understand the boy, or any boy. I don't
profess to be profound ; but I do lay claim to common sense."
" No doubt, my dear Jane," returned my mother, " your under-
standing is very vigorous — "
" O dear, no ! Pray don't say that, Clara," interposed Miss Murd-
stone, angrily.
" But I am sure it is," resumed my mother ; " and everybody
knows it is. I profit so much by it myself, in many ways — at least
I ought to — that no one can be more convinced of it than myself ;
and therefore I speak with great diffidence, my dear Jane, I assure
you."
" We '11 say I don't understand the boy, Clara," returned Miss
^Murdstone, arranging the little fetters on her wrists. " We '11 agree,
if you please, that I don't understand him at all. He is much too
deep for me. But perhaps my brother's penetration may enable
him to have some insight into his character. And I believe my
brother was speaking on the subject when we — not very decently — •
interrupted him."
" I think, Clara," said Mr. Murdstone, in a lew, grave voice, " that
there may be better and more dispassionate judges of such a ques
tion than you."
" Edward," repKed my mother, timidly, " you are a far better judge
of all questions than I pretend to be. Both you and Jane are. I
only said — ^"
" You only said something weak and inconsiderate," he replied.
" Try not to do it again, my dear Clara, and keep a watch upon
youi'self."
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 157
My motlier's lips moved, as if she answered, " Yes, my dear Ed-
ward," but she said nothing aloud.
" I was sorry, David, I remarked," said Mr. Murdstone, turning
his head and his eyes stiffly towards me, " to observe that you are
of a sullen disposition. This is not a character that I can suffer to
develop itself beneath my eyes without an effort at improvement.
You must endeavour, sir, to change it. We must endeavour to
change it for you."
" I beg your pardon, sir," I faltered. " I have never meant to
be sullen since I came back."
" Don't take refuge in a lie, sir !" he returned so fiercely, that I
saw my mother involuntarily put out her trembling hand as if to
interpose between us. " You have withdrawn youreelf in your
suUenness to your own room. You have kept your own room when
you ought to have been here. You know now, once for all, that I
require you to be here, and not there. Further, that I require
you to bring obedience here. You know me, David. I will have it
done."
Miss Murdstone gave a hoarse chuckle.
" I will have a respectful, prompt, and ready bearing towards my-
self," he continued, " and towards Jane Murdstone, and towards your
mother. I -ssill not have this room shunned as if it were infected, at
the pleasure of a child. Sit down."
He ordered me hke a, dog, and I obeyed like a dog.
" One thing more," he said. " I observe that you have an attach
ment to low and common company. You are not to associate with
servants. The kitchen will not improve you, in the many respects
in which you need improvement. Of the woman who abets you, I
say nothing — since you, Clara," addressing my mother in a lower
voice, "from old associations and long-established fancies, have a
weakness respecting her which is not yet overcome."
" A most unaccountable delusion it is !" cried Miss Murdstone.
" I only say," he resumed, addressing me, " that I disapprove of
your prefening such company as Mistress Peggotty, and that it is to
be abandoned. Now, David, you understand me, and you know
what will be the consequence if you fail to obey me to the letter."
I knew well — better perhaps than he thought, as far as my poor
mother was concerned — and I obeyed him to the letter. I retreated
158 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
to my own room no more ; I took refuge with Peggotty no more •
but sat wearily in the parlor day after day, looking forward to night,
and bed-time.
What irksome constraint I underwent, sitting in the same attitudf
houi*s upon hours, afraid to move an arm or a leg lest Miss Murd
stone should complain (as she did on the least pretence) of my rest
lessness, and afraid to move an eye lest it should light on some look
of dislike or scrutiny that would find new cause for complaint in
mine ! What intolerable dulness to sit hstening to the ticking of
the clock ; and watching Miss Murdstone's little shiny steel beads as
she strung them ; and wondering whether she would ever be married,
and if so, to what sort of unhappy man ; and counting the divisions
in the moulding on the chimney-piece ; and wandering away, with
my eyes, to the ceiling, among the curls and corkscrews in the paper
on the wall !
What walks I took alone, down muddy lanes, in the bad winter
weather, carr}ang that parlor, and Mr. and Miss Murdstone in it,-
everywhere : a monstrous load that I was obliged to bear, a daymare
that there was no possibihty of breaking in, a weight that brooded
on my wits, and blunted them !
What meals I had in silence and embarrassment, always feehng
that there were a knife and fork too many, and that mine ; an ap-
petite too many, and that mine ; a plate and chair too many, and those
mine ; a somebody too many, and that I !
What evenings, when the candles came, and I was expected to
employ myself, but, not daring to read an entertaining book, pored
over some hard-headed, a«l harder-hearted treatise on arithmetic ;
when the tables of weights and measures set themselves to tunes, as
Kule Britannia, or Away with Melancholy ; and wouldn't stand still
to be learnt, but would go threading my grandmother's needle
through my unfortunate head, in at one ear and out at the other !
What yawns and dozes I lapsed into, in si)ite of all my care ; what
starts I came out of concealed sleeps with ; what answers I never got,
to little observations that I rarely made ; what a blank space I
seemed, which everybody overlooked, and yet was in everybody's
way ; what a heavy relief it was to hear Miss Murdstone hail the first
stroke of nine at night, and order me to bed !
Thus the hohdays lagged away, until the morning came when
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 1G9
Miss Miirdstone said: "Here's the last day oflf!" and gave me tha
closing cup of tea of the vacation.
I was not sorry to go. I had lapsed into a stupid state ; but I
was recovering a httle and looking forward to Steerforth, albeit Mr.
Creakle loomed behind him. Again Mr, Barkis appeared at the gate,
and affain ]\liss Murdstone in her warninfj voice said : " Clara !" when
my mother bent over me, to bid me farewell.
I kissed her, and my baby brother, and was very sorry then ; but
not sorry to go away, for the gulf between us was there, and the
parting was there, every day. And it is not so much the embrace
she gave me, that lives in my mind, though it was as fervent as
could be, as what followed the embrace.
I was in the carrier's cart when I heard her calling to me. I
looked out, and she stood at the garden-gate alone, holding her baby
up in her arms for me to see. It was cold, still weather ; and not a
hair of her head, or a fold of her dress, was stirred, as she looked
intently at me, holding up her child.
So I lost her. So I saw her afterwards, in my sleep at school — a
silent presence near my bed — looking at me with *he same intent
6ace — holding up her baby in her arms.
CHAPTER IX.
I HAVE A MEMORABLE BIRTHDAY
I PASS over all that happened at school, imtil the anniversary of
my birthday came round in March. Except that Steerforth waa
more to be admired than ever, I remember nothing. He was
going away at the end of the half-year, if not sooner, and was more
spirited and independent than before in my eyes, and therefore more
enoraoinof than before ; but bevond this I remember nothino;. The
great remembrance by which that time is marked in my mind, seems
to have swallowed up all lesser recollections, and to exist alone.
It is even difficult for me to believe that there was a gap of full
two months between my return to Salem House and the arrival of
that birthday. I can only understand that the fact was so, becausft
I know it must have been so ; otherwise I should feel con\-inced that
there was no interval, and that the one occasion trod upon the
other's heels.
How well I recollect the kind of day it was ! I smell the fog
that hung about the place ; I see the hoar frost, ghostly, through it ;
I feel my rimy hair fall clammy on my cheek ; I look along the dim
perspective of the schoolroom, with a sputtering candle here and
tliere to light up the foggy morning, and the breath of the boys
^M'eathing and smoking in the raw cold as they blow upon their
fingers, and tap their feet upon the floor.
It was after breakfast, and we had beer summoned in from the
plav-ground, when Mr. Sharp entered and said :
" David Coppeiiield is to go into the parlor."
I expected a hamper from Peggotty, and brightened at the order.
Some of the boys about me put in their claim not to be forgotten in
the distribution of the good things, as I got out of my seat with
great alacrity.
" Don't hurry, David," said Mr. Sharp. " There's time enough,
my boy, don't hurry."
I might have been surprised by the feeling tone in which he spoke,
160
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 161
if I had given it a thought ; but I gave it none until afterwards. J
hurried away to the parlor ; and there I found Mr. Creakle sitting
at his breakfast with the cane and a newspaper before him, and Mrs.
Creakle with an opened letter in her hand. But no hamper.
•' David Copperfield," said Mi*s. Creakle, leading me to a sofa, and
sitting down beside me. " I want to speak to you very particularly
I have something to tell you, my child."
Mr. Creakle, at whom of course I looked, shook his head without
looking at me, and stopped up a sigh with a very large piece of but-
tered toast.
" You are too young to know how the world changes every day,"
said Mrs. Creakle, " and how the people in it pass away. But we all
have to learn it, David ; some of us when we are young, some of us
when we are old, some of us at all times of our lives."
I looked at her earnestly.
" When you came away from home at the end of the vacation,"
said Mrs. Creakle, after a pause, " were they all weU ? " And after
another pause, " Was^ your mama well ? "
I trembled without distinctly knowing why, and still looked at her
earnestly, making no attempt to answer.
" Because," said she, " I grieve to tell you that I hear this morning
your mama is very ill."
A mist arose between Mrs. Creakle and me, and her figure seemed
to move in it for an instant. Then I felt the burninor tears run down
my face, and it was steady again.
" She is very dangerously ill," she added.
I knew all now.
"She is dead."
There was no need to tell me so. I had already broken out into
a desolate cry, and felt an orphan in the wide world.
She was very kind to me. She kept me there all day, and left
ne alone sometimes ; and I cried, and wore myself to sleep, and
awoke and cried again. When I could cry no more, I began to
think ; and then the oppression on my breast was hea\iest, and my
grief a dull pain that there was no ease for.
And yet my thoughts were idle ; not intent on the calamity that
weighed upon ny litart, but idly loitering near it. I thought of
oiir house shut up and hushed. I thought of the httle baby, who,
10
162 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Mrs. Creakle said, had been pining away for some time, and who,
they believed, would die too. I thought of my father's gi-ave in tha
churchyard, by our house, and of my mother lying there beneath
the tree I knew so well. I stood upon a chair when I was left
alone, and looked into the glass to see how red my eyes were, and
how sorrowful my face. I considered, after some hours were gone,
if my tears were really hard to flow now, as they seemed to be,
what, in connexion with my loss, it would affect me most to think
of when I drew near home — ^for I was going home to the funeral. I
am sensible of having felt that a dignity attached to me among the
rest of the boys, and that I was important in my affliction.
If ever child were stricken with sincere grief, I was. But I re-
member that this importance was a kind of satisfaction to me, when
I walked in the playground that afternoon while the boys were in
school. When I saw them glancing at me out of the windows, as
they went up to their classes, I felt distinguished, and looked more
melancholy, and walked slower. When school was over, and they
came out and spoke to me, I felt it rather good in myself not to be
proud to any of them, and to take exactly the same notice of them
all, as before.
I was to go home next night ; not by the mail, but by the heavy
night-coach, which was called the Farmer, and was principally used
by country-people travelling short intermediate distances upon the
road. We had no story telling that evening, and Traddles insisted
on lending me his pillow. I don't know what good he thought it
would do me, for I had one of my own ; but it was all he had to
lend, poor fellow, except a sheet of letter paper full of skeletons ; and
that he gave me at parting, as a soother of my sorrows and a contri-
bution to my peace of mind.
I left Salem House upon the morrow afternoon. I httle thought
then that I left it, never to return. We travelled very slowly all night,
and did not get into Yarmouth before nine or ten o'clock in the
morning. I looked out for Mr. Barkis, but he was not there ; and
instead of him a fat, short- 'wdnded, merry-looking, little old man in
black, ^vith rusty little bunches of ribbons at the knees of his breeches,
black stockings, and a broad-brimmed hat, came puffing up to the
coach window, and said :
" Master Copperfield ? "
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 163
"Yes, sir."
"Will you come with me, young sir, if you please" ae said,
opening the door, " and I shall have the pleasure of taking you
home."
I put my hand in his, wondering who he was, and we walked away
to a shop in a nan*ow street, on which was wiitten Omer, Draper,
Tailor, Haberdasher, Funeral Furnisher, &c. It was a close
and stifling little shop ; full of all sorts of clothing, made and
unmade, including one window full of beaver-hats and bonnets. We
went into a httle back-parlor behind the shop, where we found three
young women at work on a quantity of black materials, which were
heaped upon the table, and little bits and cuttings of which were lit-
tered all over the flc^r. There was a good fire in the room, and a
breathless smell of warm black crape — I did not know what the smell
was then, but I know now.
The three young women, who appeared to be very industrious
and comfortable, raised their heads to look at me, and then went on
with their work. Stitch, stitch, stitch. At the same time there came
from a workshop across a httle yard outside the window, a regular
Bound of hammering that kept a kind of tune : Rat — tat-tat, rat —
tat-tat, RAt — tat-tat, %^'ithout any vai'iation.
" Well," said my conductor to one of the three young women.
" How do you get on, ^Minnie ? "
" We shall be ready by the trpng-on time," she rephed gaily,
without looking up. " Don't you be afraid, Mher."
Mr. Omer took off his broad-brimmed hat, and sat down and
panted. He was so fat that he was obliged to pant some time
before he could say :
"That's right."
"Father!" said Minnie playfully. "What a porpoise you do
grow ! "
" Well, I don't know how it is, my dear," he rephed, considering
about it. " I am rather so."
" You are such a comfortable man, you see," said Minnie. " You
take tilings so easy."
" No use taking 'em otherwise, ray dear '' said Mr. Omer.
" No, indeed," returned his daughter. " We are all pretty gay
-here, thank Heaven ! Ain't we, father ? "
164 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" I hope so, my dear," said Mr. Omer. " As I hate got my breath
now, I think I'll measure this young scholar. Would you walk into
the shop. Master Copperfield ? "
I preceded Mr. Omer, in comphance with his request ; and after
showing me a roll of cloth which he said was extra super, and too
good mourning for anything short of parents, he took my various
dimensions, and put them down in a book. While he was recording
them he called my attention to his stock in trade, and to certain
fashions which he said had "just come up," and to certain other
fashions which he said had "just gone out."
" And by that sort of thing we very often lose a little mint of
money," said Mr. Omer. "But fashions are hke human beings.
They come in, nobody knows when, why, or how ; and they go out,
nobody knows when, why, or how. Everything is like hfe, in my
opinion, if you look at it in that point of \iew."
I was too sorrowful to discuss the question, which would possibly ,
have been beyond me under any circumstances ; and Mr. Omer took
me back into the parlor, breathing Avith some difficulty on the way.
He then called down a httle break-neck range of steps behind a
door : " Bring up that tea and bread-and-butter ! " which, after some
time, during which I sat looking about me and thinking, and listening
to the stitching in the room, and the tune that was being hammered
across the yard, appeared on a tray, and turned out to be for me.
" I have been acquainted with you," said Mr. Omer, after watching
me for some minutes, during which I had not made much impression
on the breakfast, for the black things destroyed my appetite, " I
have been acquainted with you a long time, my young friend."
" Have you, sir ? "
" All your hfe," said Mr. Omer. " I may say before it. I knew
your father before you. He was five foot nine and a half, and he
lays in five and twen-ty foot of ground."
" Rat — tat-tat, rat — tat-tat, rat — tat-tat," across the yard.
" He lays in five and twen-ty foot of ground, if he lays in a
fraction," said Mr. Omer pleasantly. " It was either his request or
her direction, I forget which."
" Do you know how my little brother is, su* ?" I inquired.
Mr. Omer shook his head.
" Rat — tat-tat, rat — tat-tat, rat — tat-tat."
" He is in his mother's arms," said he.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 165
" Oh, poor little fellow ! Is he dead ? "
" Don't mind it more than you can help," said Mr. Omer. " Yes.
The baby's dead."
My wounds broke ou-t afresh at this intelligence. I left the
scarcely-tasted breakfast, and went and rested my head on another
table in a corner of the little room, which Minnie hastily cleared, lest
I should spot the mourning that was l}^ng there with my tears.
She was a pretty good-natured girl, and put my hair away from my
eyes with a soft kind touch ; but she was very cheerful at having
nearly finished her work and being in good time, and was so
different from me.
Presently the tune left off, and a good-looking young fellow^ came
across the yard into the room. He had a hammer in his hand, and
his mouth was fiill of little nails, which he was obliged to take out
before he could speak.
" Well, Joram ! " said Mr. Omer. " How do you get on ? "
" All right," said Joram. " Done, sir."
Minnie colored a little, and the other two girls smiled at one
another.
" What ! you were at it by candle-light last night, when I was at
the club, then ? Were you ? " said Mr. Omer, shutting up one eye.
" Yes," said Joram. " As you said we could make a little trip of
it, and go over together, if it was done, Minnie and me — and you."
" Oh ! I thought you were going to leave me out altogether," said
Mr. Omer, laughing till he coughed.
" — As you was so good as to say that," resumed the young man,
" why I turned to with a will, you see. Will you give me your
opinion of it ? "
" I will," said Mr. Omer, rising. " My dear ; " and he stopped and
turned to me ; " would you hke to see your "
" No, father," Minnie interposed.
"I thought it might be agreeable, my dear," said Mr. Omer.
" But perhaps you're right."
I can't say how I knew it was my dear, dear mother's coffin that
they went to look at. I had never heard one making ; I had never
seen one that I know of : but it came into my mind what the noisa
was, while it was going on ; and when the young man entered, I am
sure I knew what he had been doiniTf.
166 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
The work being now finished, the two girls, whose names I had
not heard, brushed the shreds and threads fi-om their dresses, and
went into tlie shop to put that to rights, and wait for customers.
Minnie stayed behind to fold up what they had made, and pack it i nto
baskets. This she did, upon her knees, humming a hvely httle tane
the while. Joram, who I had no doubt was her lover, came in and
stole a kiss from her while she was busy (he didn't appear to mind
me, at all), and said her father was gone for the chaise, and he must
make haste and get himself ready. Then he went out again ; and
then she put her thimble and scissors in her pocket, and stuck a
needle threaded with black thread neatly in the bosom of her gown,
and put on her outer clothing sihartly, at a little, glass behind the
door, in which I saw the reflection of her pleased face.
All this I observed, sitting at the table in the corner Avith my
head leaning on my hand, and my thoughts running on very differ-
ent thino^. The chaise soon came round to the front of the shop,
and the baskets being put in first, I was put in next, and those
three followed. I remember it as a kind of half chaise-cart, half
piano-forte van, painted of a sombre color, and di'awn by a black
horse with a long tail. There was plenty of room for us all.
I do not think I have ever experienced so strange a feeling in my
Jife (I am wiser now, perhaps) as that of being with them, remem-
bering how they had been employed, and seeing them enjoy the
ride. I was not angry with them ; I was more afraid of them, as if
I were cast away among creatures with whom I had no community
of nature. They were veiy cheerful. The old man sat in jfront to
drive, and the two young people sat behind him, and whenever he
spoke to them leaned forward, the one on one side of his chubby
face, and the other on the other, and made a great deal of him.
They would have talked to me too, but I held back, and moped in
my corner ; scared by their love-making and hilarity, though it was
far from boisterous, and almost wondering that no judgment came
upon them for their hardness of heart.
So, when they stopped to bait the horse, and ate and drank and
enjoyed themselves, I could touch nothing that they touched, but
kept my fast unbroken. So, when we reached home, I di'opped out
of the chaise behind, as quickly as possible, that I might not be in
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 167
their company before those solemn windows, looking blind!} on me
Uke closed eyes once bright. And oh, how httle need I had had to
think what would move me to tears when I came back — seeing the
window of my mother's room, and next it that which, in th(i better
time, was mine !
I was in Peggotty's arms before I got to the door, and she took
me into the house. Her grief burst out when she first saw me ; but
she controlled it soon, and spoke in .whispers, and walked softly,
as if the dead could be disturbed. She had not been in bed, I
found, for a long time. She sat up at night still, and watched. As
long as her poor dear pretty was above the ground, she said, she
would never desert her.
Mr. Murdstone took no heed of me when I went into the parlor
where he was, but sat by the fireside, weeping silently, and ponder-
ing in his elbow-chaii. Miss Murdstone, who was busy at her writ-
ing-desk, which was covered \vith letters and papers, gave me her
cold finger-nails, and asked me, in an iron whisper, if I had been
measured for my mourning.
I said: "Yes."
" And your shirts," said Miss Murdstone ; " have you brought 'em
home ?"
" Yes, ma'am. I have brought home all my clothes."
This was all the consolation that her firmness administered to me.
I do not doubt that she had a choice pleasure in exhibiting what she
called her self-command, and her firmness, and her strength of
mind, and her common sense, and the whole diabolical catjilogue
of her unamiable qualities, on such an occasion. She was particu-
larly proud of her turn for business ; and she showed it now in
reducing everything to pen and ink, and being moved by nothing.
All the rest of that day, and from morning to night afterwards, she
sat at that desk ; scratching composedly with a hard pen, speaking
in the same imperturbable whisper to everybody ; never relaxing a
muscle of her face, or softening a tone of her voice, or appearing
with an atom of her dress astray.
Her brother took a book sometimes, but never read it that I saw.
He would open it and look at it as if he were reading, but would
remain for a whole hour without turning the leaf, and then put it
168 DAVID COPrERFIELD.
down and walk to and fro in the room. I used to sit with folded
hands watching him, and counting liis footsteps hour after hour
He very seldom spoke to her, and never to me. He seemed to be
the only restless thing, except the clocks, in tne whole motionless
house.
In these days before the funeral, I saw but httle of Peggotty
except that, in passing up or down stairs, I always found her close
to the room where my mother and her baby lay, and except that
she came to me every night, and sat by my bed's head while I went
to sleep. A day or two before the burial — I think it was a day or
two before, but I am conscious of confusion in my mind about that
heavy time, with nothing to mark its progress — she took me into
the room. I only recollect that underneath some white covering on
the bed, with a beautiful cleanliness and freshness all around it, there
seemed to me to lie embodied the solemn stillness that was in the
house; and that when she would have turned the cover gently
back, I cried : " Oh no ! oh no !" and held her hand.
If the fimeral had been yesterday, I could not recollect it better.
The veiy air of the best parlor, when I went in at the door, the
bright condition of the fire, the shining of the wine in the decanters,
the patterns of the glasses and plates, the faint sweet smell of cake,
the odour of IVIiss Murdstone's dress, and our black clothes. Mr.
Chillip is in the room, and comes to speak to me.
" And how is Master David ?" he says kindly.
I cannot tell him very well. I give him my hand, which he holds
in his.
"Dear me!" says Mr. Chillip, meekly smiling, with something
shining in his eye. " Our httle friends grow up around us. They
grow out of our knowledge, ma'am ?"
This is to Miss Murdstone, who makes no reply.
" There is a great improvement here, ma'am !" says Mr. Chillip.
Miss Murdstone merely answers with a frown and a formal bend ;
Mr. Chillip, discomfited, goes into a corner, keeping me with him,
and opens his mouth no more.
I remark this, because I remark everything that happens, not
because I care about myself, or have done since I came home. And
now the bell begins to sound, and Mr. Omer and another come to
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 169
make us ready. As Peggotty was wont to tell me, long ago, the
followers of my father to the same grave were made ready in the
same room.
There are Mr. Murdstone, our neighbour Mr. Grayper, Mr. Chillip,
and I. When we go out to the door, the Bearers and their load
are in the garden ; and they move before us down the path, and
past the elms, and through the gate, and into the church-yard where
I have so often heard the birds sing on a summer morning.
We stand around the grave. The day seems different to me from
every other day, and the light not of the same color — of a sadder
color. Now there is a solemn hush, which we have brought from
home with what is resting in the mould ; and while we stand bare-
headed, I hear the voice of the clergyman, sounding remote in the
open air, and yet distinct and plain, saying : " I am the Resurrection
and the Life, saith the Lord ! " Then I hear sobs ; and, stanchng
apart among the lookers-on, I see that good and faithful servant,
whom of all the people upon earth I love the best, and unto whom
my childish heart is certain that the Lord will one day say : " Well
done."
There are many faces that I know, among the httle crowd ; faces
that I knew in church, when mine was always wondering there ;
faces that first saw my mother, when she came to the village in her
youthful bloom. I do not mind them — I mind nothing but my
grief — and yet I see and know them all ; and even in the back •
ground, far away, see Minnie looking on, and her eye glancing on
her sweetheart, who is near me.
It is over, and the earth is filled in, and we turn to come away.
Before us stands our house, so pretty and unchanged, so linked in
ray mind with the young idea of what is gone, that all my sorrow
has been nothing to the sorrow it calls forth. But they take me on ;
and ^fr. ChilHp talks to me ; and when we get home, puts some
water to my Hps ; and when I ask his leave to go up to my room,
dismisses me with the gentleness of a woman.
All this, I say, is yesterday's event. Events of later date have
floated from me to the shore where all forgotten things will reap-
pear, but this stands like a high rock in the ocean.
I knew that l^eggotty would come to me in my room. The Sab
170 DAVID COrrERFIELD.
bath stillness of the time (the day was so like Sunday ! I have fc*
gotten that) was suited to us both. She sat down by my side upoi.
my httle bed ; and holding my hand, and sometimes putting it to
her lips, and sometimes smoothing it with hers, as she might have
comforted my httle brother, told me, in her way, all that she had
to tell concerning what had happened.
" She was never well," said Peggotty, " for a long time. She
was uncertain in her mind, and not happy. When her baby was
born, I thought at first she would get better, but she was more deh-
cate, and sunk a httle every day. She use<l to like to sit alone
before her baby came, and then she cried ; but afterwards she used
to sing to it — so soft, that I once thought, when I heard her, it was
,like a voice up in the air, that was rising away.
" I think she got to be more timid, and more frightened-like, of
late ; and that a hard word was hke a blow to her. But she was
always the same to me. She never changed to her foolish Peggotty,
didn't my sweet girl."
Here Peggotty stopped, and softly beat upon my hand a Httle
while.
" The last time that I saw her like her own old self, was the
night when you came home, my dear. The day you went away,
she said to me, ' I never shall see my pretty darling again. Some-
thing tells me so, that tells the truth, I know.'
" She tried to hold up after that ; and many a time, when they
told her she was thoughtless and hght-hearted, made believe to be
so ; but it was all a bygone then. She never told her husband what
she had told me — she was afraid of saying it to anybody else — till
one night, a httle more than a week before it happened, when she
said to him : ' My dear, I think I am dying.'
"'It's off my mind now, Peggotty,' she told me, when I laid her
in her bed that night. ' He will beheve it more and more, poor
fellow, every day for a few days to come ; and then it will be past.
I am very tired. If this is sleep, sit by me while I sleep : don't
leave me. God bless both my children ! God protect and keep my
fatherless boy !"
" I never left her afterwards," said Peggotty. " She often talked
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 171
to them two down stairs — for she loved them ; she couldn't bear not
to lo\e any one who was about her — but when they went away from
her belside, she always turned to me, as if there was rest where
Peggotty was, and never fell asleep in any other way.
" On the last night, in the evening, she kissed me, and said : ' If
my baby should die too, Peggotty, please let them lay him in my
arms, and bury us together.' (It was done ; for the poor lamb lived
but a day beyond her.) ' Let my dearest boy go with us to our
resting-place,' she said, ' and tell him that his mother, when she laj
here, blessed him not once, but a thousand times.' "
Another silence followed this, and another gentle beating on my
hand.
"It was pretty far in the night," said Peggotty, "when she asked
me for some drink ; and when she had taken it, gave me such a
patient smile, the dear ! — so beautiful I —
" Daybreak had come, and the sun was rising, when she said to
me, how kind and considerate Mr. Copperfield had always been to
her, and how he had borne with her, and told her, when she doubt
ed herself, that a loving heart was better and stronger than wisdom,
and that he was a happy man in hers. ' Peggotty, my dear,' she
said then, ' put me nearer to you,' for she was very weak. ' Lay
your good arm underneath my neck,' she said, ' and turn me to you,
for your face is going far off, and I want it to be near.' I put it as
she asked ; and oh Davy ! the time had come when my first parting
words to you were true — when she was glad to lay her poor head on
her stupid cross old Peggotty's arm — and she died hke a child that
had gone to sleep !"
Thus ended Peggotty's narration. From the moment of my
knowing of the death of my mother, the idea of her as she had
been of late had vanished from me. I remembered her, from that
instant, only as the young mother of my earliest impressions, who
had been used to wind her bright curls round and lound her finger,
and to dance with me at twilight in the parlor. What Peggotty
had told me now, was so far from bringing me back to the Idter
period, that it rooted the earher image in my mind. It may be
172 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
curious, but it is true. In her death she ringed her way back U>
her calm untroubled youth, and cancelled all the rest.
The mother who lay in the grave, was the mother of my infancy
the httle creature in her arms, was myself; as I had once been,
Qushed for ever on her bosom.
CHAPTER X.
I BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOIl.
The first act of business Miss Murdstone performed when tlie day
of the solemnity was over, and hght was freely admitted into the
house, was to give Peggotty a month's warning. Much as Peggotty
would have dishked such a ser\'ice, I believe she would have retained
it, for my sake, in preference to the best upon earth. She told me
we must part, and told me why ; and we condoled "with one another,
in all sincerity.
As to me or my future, not a word was said, or a step taken.
Happy they would have been, I dare say, if they could have dis-
missed me at a month's warning too. I mustered courage once, to
ask Miss Murdstone when I was going back to school ; and she
answered dryly, she beheved I was not going back at all. I was
told nothing more. I was very anxious to know what was going to
be done with me, and so was Peggotty ; but neither she nor I could
pick up any information on the subject.
There was one change in my condition, which, while it relieved
me of a great deal of present uneasiness, might have made me, if I
had been capable of considering it closely, yet more uncomfortable
about the future. It was this. The constraint that had been put
upon me was quite abandoned. I was so far from being required to
keep my dull post in the parlor, that on several occasions, when I
took my seat there. Miss Murdstone frowned to me to go away. I
was so far from being warned off from Peggotty's society, that, pro-
vided I was not in Mr. Murdstone's, I was never sought out or in-
quired for. At first I was in daily dread of his taking my education
in hand again, or of Miss Murdstone's devoting herself to it ; but I
soon began to think that such fears were groundless, and that all I
had to anticipate was neglect.
I do not conceive that this discovery gave me nmch pain then. I
173
174 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
was still giddy with the shock of my mother's death, and in a kind
of stunned state as to all tributary things. I can recollect, indeed,
to have speculated, at odd times, on the possibility of my not being
taught any more, or cared for any more ; and growing up to be a
shabby moody man, lounging an idle life away, about the village ;
as well as on the feasibility of my getting rid of this picture by
going away somewhere, hke the hero in a story, to seek my fortune :
but these were transient visions, day dreams I sat looking at some-
times, as if they were faintly painted or written on the wall of my
room, and which, as they melted away, left the wall blank again.
" Peggotty," I said in a thoughtful whisper, one evening, when I
was warming my hands at the kitchen &e, " Mr. Murdstone likes me
less than he used to. He never liked me much, Peggotty ; but he
would rather not even see me now, if he can help it."
" Perhaps it 's his sorrow," said Peggotty, stroking my hair.
" I am sure, Peggotty, I am soiTy too. If I believed it was his
son-ow, I should not think of it at all. But it 's not that ; oh, no,
it 's not that."
" How do you know it's not that ? " said Peggotty, after a
silence.
" Oh, his sorrow is another and quite a different thing. He is
sorry at this moment, sitting by the fireside mth Miss Murdstone ;
but if I was to go in, Peggotty, he would be something besides."
" What would he be ? " said Peggotty.
" Angry," I answered, with an involuntary imitation of his dark
frown. " If he was only sorry, he wouldn't look at me as he does.
/ am only sorry, and it makes me feel kinder."
Peggotty said nothing for a httle while ; and I warmed my hands,
as silent as she.
" Davy," she said at length.
"Yes, Peggotty?"
" I have tried, my dear, all ways I could think of — all the ways
there are, and aU the ways there ain't, in short — to get a suitable
ser\'ice here, in Blunderstone ; but there's no such a thing, my
love."
" And what do you mean to do, Peggotty ? " says I, wistfully
" Do you mean to go and seek your fortune 2 "
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 175
" I expect I shall be forced to go to Yarmouth," replied Peggotty,
" and Hve there."
" You might have gone farther off," I said, brightening a little,
"and been as bad as lost. I shall see you sometimes, my dear old
Peggotty, there. You won't be quite at the other end of the world,
will you ? "
" Contrary ways, please God ! " cried Peggotty, with great ani-
mation. " As long as you are here, my pet, I shall come over
every week of my life to see you. One day, every week of my
life!"
I felt a great weight taken off my mind by this promise ; but
even this was not all, for Peggotty went on to say :
" I'm a going, Da\y, you see, to my brother's, first, for another
fortnight's visit — just till I have had time to look about me, and get
to be something hke myself again. Now, I have been thinking,
that perhaps, as they don't want you here at present, you might be
let to go along with me."
.. If anything, short of being in a different relation to every one
about me, Peggotty excepted, could have given me a sense of plea-
sure at that time, it would have been this project of all others.
The idea of being again sun-ounded by those honest faces, shining
welcome on me ; of renewing the peacefulness of the sweet Sunday
moniing, when the bells were ringing, the stones dropping in the
water, and the shadowy ships breaking through the mist ; of roaming
up and down with httle Em'ly, telling her my troubles, and finding
charms against them in the shells and pebbles on the beach; made
a calm in my heart. It was ruffled next moment, to be sure, by a
doubt of Miss Murdstone's giving her consent ; but even that was
set at rest soon, for she came out to take an evening grope in the
store-closet while we were yet in conversation, and Peggotty, with a
boldness that amazed me, broached the topic on the spot.
" The boy will be idle there," said Miss Murdstone, looking into a
pickle-jar, " and idleness is the root of all e^^l. But, to be sure, he
would be idle here — or anywhere, in my opinion."
Peggotty had an angry answer ready, I could see ; but she
Bwallowed it for my sake, and remained silent.
" Humph ! " said Miss Murdstone, still keeping her eye on the
176 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
pickles; "it is of more importance tlian anything else — ^it is of
paramomit importance — that my brother should not be distm-bed or
made uncomfortable. I suppose I had better say yes."
I thanked her without making any demonstration of joy, lest it
should induce her to withdraw her assent. Nor could I help think-
ing this a prudent course, when she looked at me out of the pickle-
jar, with as great an access of sourness as if her black eyes had
absorbed its contents. However, the permission was given, and was
never retracted ; for when the month was out, Peggotty and I were
ready to depart.
Mr. Barkis came into the house for Peggotty's boxes. I had
never known him to pass the garden-gate before, but on this occa-
sion he came into the house. And he gave me a look, as he
shouldered the largest box and went out, which I thought had
meaning in it, if meaning could ever be said to find its way into Mr.
Barkis's visage.
Peggotty was naturally in low spirits at leaving what had been
her home so many years, and where the two strong attachments of
her life — for my mother and myself — had been formed. She had
been walking in the churchyard, too, very early ; and she got into
the cart, and sat in it with her handkerchief at her eyes.
So long as she remained in this condition Mr. Barkis gave no
sign of hfe whatever. He sat in his usual place and attitude, like a
great stuffed figure. But when she began to look about her, and to
speak to me, he nodded his head and grinned several times. I have
not the least notion at whom, or what he meant by it.
"It's a beautiful day, Mr. Barkis !" I said, as an act of politeness.
"It ain't bad," said Mr. Barkis, who generally quahfied his
speech, and rarely committed himself.
" Peggotty is quite comfortable now, Mr. Barkis," I remarked, for
his satisfaction.
" Is she, though !" said Mr. Barkis.
After reflecting about it, wiih. a sagacious air, Mr. Barkis eyed
her, and said :
" Are you pretty comfortable ?"
Peggotty laughed, and answered in the affirmative.
" But really and truly, you know. Are you ?" growled Mr.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 177
Barkis, slidiug nearer to her on tlie seat, and nudging her with his
elbow. " Are you ? Really and truly pretty comfortable ? Are you I
Eh ?" At each of these inquiries Mr. Barkis shuffled nearer to her,
and gave her another nudge ; so that at last we were all crowded
together in the left-hand corner of the cart, and I was so squeezed
that I could hardly bear it.
Peggotty calling his attention to my sufferings, Mr. Barkis gave
me a little more room at once, and got away by degrees. But I
could not help observing that he seemed to think he had hit upon
a wonderfid expedient for expressing himself in a neat, agreeable,
and pointed manner, without the inconvenience of inventing conver-
sation. He manifestly chuckled over it for some time. By-and-
by he tm-ned to Peggotty again, and repeating, " Are you pretty
comfortable though ?" bore down upon us as before, until the breath
was nearly wedged out of my body. By-and-by he made another
descent upon us with the same inquiry, and the same result. At
length, I got up whenever I saw him coming, and standing on the
foot-board, pretended to look at the prospect ; after which I did very
well.
He was so polite as to stop at a public-house, expressly on our
account, and entertain us with broiled mutton and beer. Even when
Peggotty was in the act of drinking, he was seized with one of
those approaches, and almost choked her. But as we drew nearer
to the end of our journey, he had more to do and less time for
gallantry ; and when we got on Yarmouth pavement, we were all
too much shaken and jolted, I apprehend, to have any leisure for
anything else.
Mr. Peggotty and Ham waited for us at the old place. They
received me and Peggotty in an affectionate manner, and shook
hands with Mr. Barkis, who, with his hat on the very back of his
head, and a shame-faced leer upon his countenance, and pervading
liis very legs, presented but a vacant appearance, I thought. They
each took one of Peggotty's trunks, and we were going away, when
Mr. Barkis solemnly made a sign to me with his forefinger to come
under an archway.
" I say," gi'owled Mr. Barkis, " it was all right."
11
178 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
I looked up into his face, ani answered, witli an attempt to be
very profound : " Oh !"
" It didn't come to a end there," said Mr. Barkis, nodding confi-
dentially. " It was all right."
Again I answered : " Oh !"
" You know who was willin'," said my friend. " It was Barkis,
and Barkis only."
I nodded assent.
" It's all right," said Mr. Barkis, shaking hands ; " I'm a friend of
your'n. You made it all right, first. It's all right."
In his attempts to be particularly lucid, Mr. Barkis was so ex-
tremely mysterious, that I might have stood looking in his face for
an hour, and most assuredly should have got as much information
out of it as out of the face of a clock that had stopped, but for Peg-
gotty's calling me away. As we were going along, she asked me
what he had said ; and I told her he had said it was all right.
" Like his impudence," said Peggotty, " but I don't mind that !
Davy dear, what should you think if I was to think of being
married ?"
" Why — I suppose you would like me as much then, Peggotty,
as you do now ?" I returned, after a little consideration.
Greatly to the astonishment of the passengers in the street, as
well as of her relations going on before, the good soul was obliged
to stop and embrace me on the spot, with many protestations of her
unalterable love.
" Tell me what should you say, darhng ?" she asked again, when
this was over, and we were walking on.
"If you were thinking of being man-ied — to Mr. Barkis,
Peggotty ?"
*• Yes," said Peggotty.
" I should think it would be a very good thing. For then you
know, Peggotty, you would always have the horse and cart to bring
you over to see me, and could come for nothing, and be sure of
coming."
" The sense of the dear !" cried Peggotty. " What I have been
vliinking of, this month back ! Yes, my precious ; and I think I
DAVID COPPEUFIELD. 179
should be more independent altogether, you see ; let alone my
working with a better heart in my own house, than I could in any-
body else's now. I don't know what I might be fit for, now, as a
servant to a stranger. And I shall be always near my pretty's rest-
ing-place," said Peggotty musing, " and able to see it when I hke ;
and when / he down to rest, I may be laid not far off from my dar-
hng girl !"
We neither of us said anything for a little while.
"But I wouldn't so much as give it another thought," said
Peggotty, cheerily, " if my Davy was anyways against it — not if I
had been asked in church thirty times three times over, and was
wearing out the ring in my pocket."
" Look at me, Peggotty," I replied ; " and see if I am not
really glad, and don't truly wish it !" As indeed I did, with all my
heart.
" Well, my hfe," said Peggotty, giving me a squeeze, " I have
thought of it night and day, every way I can, and I hope the
right way ; but I'll think of it again, and speak to my brother about
it, and in the meantime we'll keep it to ourselves, Davy, you and
me. Barkis is a good plain creetur'," said Peggotty, " and if I tried
to do my duty by him, I think it would be my fault if I wasn't— if
I wasn't pretty comfortable," said Peggotty, laughing heartily.
This quotation from Mr. Barkis was so appropriate, and tickled us
both so much, that we laughed again and again, and were quite
in a pleasant humour when we came within view of Mrs. Peggotty's
cottage.
It looked just the same, except that it may, perhaps, have shrunk
a little in my eyes ; and Mrs. Gummidge was waiting at the door as
if she had stood there ever since. All within was the same, down
to the seaweed in the blue mug in my bedroom. I went into the
out-house to look about me ; and the very same lobsters, crabs, and
crawfish possessed by the same desire to pinch the world m general,
appeared to be in the same state of conglomeration in the same old
corner.
But there was no little Em'ly to be seen, so I asked Mr. Peggotty
where she was.
" She 's at school, sir," said Mr. Peggotty, wiping the heat con-
180 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
sequent on the porterage of Peggotty's box from bis foreliead
" she '11 be home," looking at the Dutch clock, " in from twenty
minutes to half-an-hour's time. We all on us feel the loss of liei
bless ye !"
Mrs. Gummido'e moaned.
" Cheer up, Mawther ! " cried Mr. Peggotty.
" I feel it more than anybody else," said Mrs. Gummidge ; " I 'm a
lone lorn creetur', and she used to be a'most the only think that
did'nt go contrairy with me."
Mrs. Gummidge, whimpering and shaking her head, applied her-
self to blowing the fire. Mr. Peggotty, looking round upon us
while she was so engaged, said in a low voice, which he shaded with
his hand : " The old 'un ! " From this I rightly conjectured that no
improvement had taken place since my last visit in the state of Mrs.
Guramidge's spirit.
Now, the whole place was, or it should have been, quite as
delightful a place as ever ; and yet it did not impress me in the
same way. I felt rather disappointed with it. Perhaps it was be-
cause httle Em'ly was not at home. I knew the way by which she
would come, and presently found myself strolhng along the path to
meet her.
A figure appeared in the distance before long, and I soon knew it
to be Em'ly, who was a little creature still in stature, though she
was grown. But when she drew nearer, and I saw her blue eyes
looking bluer, and her dimpled face looking brighter, and her whole
self prettier and gayer, a curious feeling cames over me that made
me pretend not to know her, and pass by as if I were looking at
something a long way off. I have done such a thing since in later
hfe, or I am mistaken.
Little Em'ly didn't care a bit. She saw me well enough ; but in-
stead of turning round and calhng after me, ran away laughing.
This obliged me to run after her, and she ran so fast that we were
very near the cottage before I caught her.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" said little Em'ly.
" Why, you knew who it was, Em'ly," said I.
" And (i'dn't you know who it was ?" said Em'ly. I was going to
kiss lier but she covered her cherry lips with her hands, and said
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 181
she wasn't a baby, now, and ran away, laughing more than ever, into
the house.
She seemed to delio-ht in teasino^ me, which was a chans-e in hor
I "SYondered at ver}^ much. The tea-table was ready, and our little
locker was put out in its old place, but instead of coming to sit by me,
she went and bestowed her company upon that grumbling Mrs.
Gummidge : and on Mr. Peggotty's inquiring why, rumpled her hair
all over her face to hide it, and would do nothinor but lauo-h.
" A little puss, it is !" said Mr. Peggotty, patting her with his great
hand.
" So sh' is ! so sh' is !" cried Ham. " Mas'r Davy bo', so sh' is !"
and he sat and chuckled at her for some time in a state of mingled
admiration and deliofht, that made his face a burninor red.
Little Em'ly was spoiled by them all, in fact ; and by no one more
than Mr. Peggotty himself, whom she could have coaxed into any-
thing, by only going and laying her cheek against his rough whisker
That was my opinion, at least, when I saw her do it ; and I held Mr.
Peggotty to be thoroughly in the right. But she was so affectionate
and sweet-natured, and had such a pleasant manner of being both
sly and shy at once, that she captivated me more than ever.
She was tender-hearted, too ; for when, as we sat round the fire
after tea, an allusion was made by Mr. Peggotty over his pipe to the
loss I had sustained, the tears stood in her eyes, and she looked at
me so kindly across the table, that I felt quite thankful r,o her.
" Ah !" said Mr. Peggotty, taking up her curls, and running them
over his hand like water, " here 's another orphan, you see, sir. And
here," said Mr. Peggotty, gixnug Ham a back-handed knock in the
chest, " is another of 'em, though he don't look much like it."
" If I had you for my guardian, Mr. Peggotty," said I, shaking
my head, " I don't think I should feel much hke it."
" Well said, Mas'r Davy bo' ! " cried Ham, in an ecstasy.
" Hoorah ! Well said ! Nor more you wouldn't ! Hor ! Hor !" — ■
Here he returned Mr. Peggotty's back-hander, and httle Em'ly go*
up and kissed Mr. Peggotty.
" And how 's your fiiend, sir ? " said Mr. Peggotty to mo.
"Steerforth?"saidI.
182 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" That 's tlie name !" cried Mr. Pc'ggotty, turning to Ham. " I
kaowed it was something in our way."
" You said it was Rudderford," observed Ham, laughing.
" Well ? " retorted Mr. Peggotty. " And ye steer with a rudder,
lon't ye ? It ain't fur off. How is he, sir ? "
" He was very well indeed when I came away, Mr. Peggotty."
" There's a fi-iend ! " said Mr. Peggotty, stretching out his pipe.
'* There's a friend, if you talk of friends ! Why, Lord love my heart
alive, if it ain't a treat to look at him ! "
" He is very handsome, is he not ? " said I, my heart warming with
this praise.
" Handsome ! " cried Mr. Peggotty. " He stands up to you like —
(ike a — why I don't know what he donH stand up to you hke. He's
so bold ! "
" Yes ! That's just his character," said I. " He's as brave as a
Hon, and you can't think how frank he is, Mr. Peggotty."
"And I do suppose now," said Mr. Peggotty, looking at me through
tlie smoke of his pipe, " that in the way of book-learning he'd take
the wind out of a'most anything."
" Yes," said I, delighted ; " he knows everything. He is astonish-
ingly clever."
" There's a friend I " murmured Mr. Peggotty, with a grave toss
of his head.
" Nothing seems to cost him any trouble," said I. " He knows a
task if he only looks at it. He is the best cricketer you ever saw.
He will give you almost as many men as you like at di-aughts, and
beat you easily."
Mr. Peggotty gave his head another toss, as much as to say : " Of
course he will,"
" He is such a speaker," I pursued, " that he can win anybody
over ; and I don't know what you'd say if you were to hear him
sing, Mr. Peggotty."
Mr. Peggotty gave his head another toss, as much as to say : " I
have no doubt of it."
"Then, he's such a generous, fine, noble fellow," said I, quite
carried away by my favorite theme, " that it's hardly possible to give
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 183
him as much praise as he deserves. I am sire I can never feel
thankful enoun;h for the generosity with which he has protected me,
so much youuger and lower in the school than himself."
I was ruunini; on, ^"ery fast indeed, when my eyes rested on little
Em'ly's face, which was bent foi'ward over the table, listening witli
the deepest attention, her breath held, her blue eyes sparkling like
jewels, and the colour mantling in her cheeks. She looked so extra-
ordinarily earnest and pretty, that I stopped in a sort of wonder ;
and they all observed her at the same time, for, as I stopped, they
laughed and looked at her.
" Em'ly is hke me," said Peggotty, " and would like to see him.'
Em'ly was confused by our all observing her, and hung down her
head, and her face was covered with blushes. Glancing up
presently through her stray curls, and seeing that we were all
looking at her still ( I am sure, I, for one, could have looked at her
for hours), she ran away, and kept away till it was nearly bed-
time.
I lay down in the old httle bed in the stem of the boat, and the
wind came moaning on across the flat as it had done before. But I
could not help fancying, now, that it moaned of those who were
gone ; and instead of thinking that the sea might rise in the night
and float the boat away, I thought of the sea that had risen, since I
last heard those sounds, and drowned my happy home. I recollect,
as the -wind and water began to sound fainter in my eai*s, putting a
ehort clause in my prayers, petitioning that I might grow up to
marry little Em'ly, and so dropping lovingly asleep.
The days passed pretty much as they had passed before, except —
it was a great exception — that httle Em'ly and I seldom wandered
on the beach now. She had tasks to learn, and needlework to do ;
and was absent during a great part of eiich day. But I felt that we
should not have had those old wanderings, even if it had been other-
wise. Wild and full of childish whims as Em'ly was, she was more
of a httle woman than I had sup])osed. She seemed to have got a
great distance away from me, in little more than a year. She liked
me, but she laughed at me, and tormented me ; and when I went
to meet her, stole home another way, and was laugh'ng at the door
184 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
wlien I came bacK disappointed. The I /est times were -wlion she sa
quietly at work in the doorway, and I sat on the wooden steji at hei
feet, reading to her. It seems to me, at this horn', that I ha^e never
seen such sunhght as on those bright April afternoons ; that I have
never seen such a sunny httle figure as I used to see, sitting in tlia
doorway of the old boat ; that I have never beheld such sky, such
water, such glorified ships sailing away into golden air.
On the very fii-st evening after our arrival, Mr. Barkis appeared in
an exceedingly vacant and awkward condition, and with a bundle of
oranges tied up in a handkerchief. As he made no allusion of any
kind to this property, he was supposed to have left it behind him by
accident when he went away ; until Ham, running after him to restoi-o
it, came back with the information that it was intended for Peggotty.
After that occasion he appeared every evening at exactly the same
hour, and always with a httle bundle, to which he never alluded, and
which he regularly put behind the door, and left there. These
offerings of aflfection were of a most various and eccentric description.
Among them I remember a double set of pig's trotters, a huge pin-
cushion, half a bushel or so of apples, a pair of jet earrings, some
Spanish onions, a box of dominoes, a canary bird and cage, and a leg
of pickled pork.
Mr. Barkis's wooing, as I remember it, was altogether of a peculiar
kind. He very seldom said anything ; but would sit by the fire in
much the same attitude as he sat in, in his cart, and stare heavily
at Peggotty, who was opposite. One night, being, as I suppose,
inspired by love, he made a dart at the bit of wax-candle she kept
for her thread, and put it in his waistcoat-pocket and carried it off.
After that, his great delight was to produce it when it was wanted,
sticking to the lining of his pocket, in a partially-melted state, and
pocket it again when it was done with. He seemed to enjoy himself
very much, and not to feel at all called upon to talk. Even when he
took Peggotty out for a walk on the flats, he had no uneasiness on
that head, I believe ; contenting himself with now and then askii^g
her if she was pretty comfortable ; and I remember that sometimes,
after he was gone, Peggotty would throw her apron over her face,
and laugh for half-an-hour. Indeed, we wcire all more or less amused,
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 185
except that miserable Mi-s. Giimmidge, whose courtship would ap-
pear to have been of an exactly parallel nature, she was so con-
tinually reminded by these transactions of the old one.
At length, when the terra of my visit was nearly expired, it was
given out that Peggotty and Mr. Barkis were going to make a day's
holiday together, and that httle Em'ly and I were to accompany
them. I had but a broken sleep the night before, in anti':-ipation of
the pleasure of a whole day with Em'ly. We were all astir betimes
in the morning ; and while w^e were yet at breakfast, Mr. Barkis
appeared in the distance, driving a chaise-cart towards the object of
his affections.
Peggotty was drest as usual, in her neat and quiet mourning;
but Mr. Barkis bloomed in a new blue coat, of which the tailor had
given him such good measure, that the cuffs would have rendered
gloves unnecessary in the coldest weather, while the collar was so
high that it pushed his hair up on end on the top of his head. His
bright buttons, too, were of the largest size. Rendered complete by
di'ab pantaloons and a buff waistcoat, I thought Mr. Barkis a pheno-
menon of respectability.
. When we were all in a bustle outside the door, I found that
Mr. Peggotty "was prepared with an old shoe, which was to be
tlirowu after us for luck, and which he offered to Mrs. Gummidge
for that purpose.
" No. It had better be done by somebody else, Dan'l," said
Mrs. Gummidge. " I'm a lone lorn creetur' myself, and ever}^think
that reminds me of creetur's that ain't lone and lorn, goes contrairy
with me."
" Come, old gal !" cried Mr. Peggotty. " Take and heave it !"
" No, Dan'l," returned Mrs. Gummidge, whimpering and shaking
her head. " If I felt less, I could do more. You don't feel like me,
Dan'l ; thinks don't go contrairy with you, nor you with them ; you
had better do it yourself."
But here I^eggotty, who had been going about from one to an-
other in a humed way, kissing everybody, called out from the cart,
in which we all were by this time (Em'ly and I on two little chaire,
side by side), that Mrs. Gummidge must do it. So Mi-s. Gummidge
did it ; and, I am sorry to relate, cast a damp upon the festive cha-
186 BaVID COrrERFIELD.
racter of our departure, by immediately bursting into tears, and sink-
ino- subdued into the arms of Ham, Avith the declaration that she
knowed she was a burden, and had better be carried to the House
at once. Which I really thought was a sensible idea, that Ham
might have acted on.
Away w^e went, however, on our holiday excursion : and the first
thing we did was to stop at a church, where Mr. Barkis tied the
hoi*se to some 'rails, and went in with Peggotty, leaving httle Em'ly
and me alone in the chaise. I took that occasion to put my arm
round Em'ly's waist, and propose that as I was going away so very
soon now, we should determine to be very affectionate to one another,
and very happy, all day. Little Em'ly consenting, and allowing me
to kiss her, I became desperate ; informing her, I recollect, that I
never could love another, and that I was prepared to shed the blood
of anybody who should aspire to her affections.
How meny little Em'ly made herself about it ! With what a
demure assumption of being immensely older and wiser than I, the
fairly little woman said I was " a silly boy ;" and then laughed so
charmingly that I forgot the pain of being called by that disparaging
name, in the pleasure of looking at her.
Mr. Barkis and Peggotty were a good while in the church, but
came out at last, and then we drove away into the country. As we
were going along, Mr. Barkis turned to me, and said, with a vdnk, —
by the by, I should hardly have thought, before, that he could
wink :
" What name was it as I wrote up in the cart ?"
" Clara Peggotty," I answered.
" What name would it be as I should write up now, if there was
a tilt here ?"
" Clara Peggotty, again ?" I suggested.
" Clara Peggotty Barkis !" he returned, and burst into a roar of
laughter that shook the chaise.
In a word, they were married, and had gone into the church for
no other purpose. Peggotty was resolved that it should be quietly
done ; and the clerk had given her away, and there had been no
witnessi'is of the ceremony. She was a little confused when Mr.
Barkis made this abrupt announcement of their union, and could
o
OF THE
DIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
DAVID COrrERFIELD. 187
not hug me enough in token of her unimpaired affection ; but
she soon became herself again, and said she was very glad it was
over.
We drove to a little inn in a bye road, where we were expected, and
where we had a very comfortable dinner, and passed the day with
great satisfaction. If Peggotty had been married every day for the
last ten years, she could hardly have been more at her ease about it ;
it made no sort of difference in her : she was just the same as ever,
and went out for a stroll with little Em'ly and me before tea, while
Mr. Barkis philosophically smoked his pipe, and enjoyed himself, I
suppose, with the contemplation of his happiness. If so, it sharp-
ened his appetite ; for I distinctly call to mind that, although he
had eaten a good deal of pork and greens at dinner, and had finished
off with a fowl or two, he was obliged to have cold boiled bacon for
tea, and disposed of a large quantity without any emotion.
I have often thought, since, what an odd, innocent, out-of-the-way
kind of wedding it must have been ! We got into the chaise again
Boon after dark, and di'ove cosily back, looking up at the stars, and
talking about them. I was their chief exponent, and opened ^Ir.
Barkis's mind to an amazing extent. I told him all I knew, but he
would have believed anything I might have taken it into my head to
impart to him ; for he had a profound veneration for my abilities,
and informed his wife in my hearing, on that very occasion, that I
was " a young Roeshus" — by which I think he meant, prodigy.
W'hen we had exhausted the subject of the stare, or rather when
L had exhausted the mental faculties of Mr. Barkis, httle Em'ly and
[ made a cloak of an old wrapper, and sat under it for the rest of the
journey. Ah, how I loved her ! W^hat happiness (I thought) if we
were married, and were going away anywhere to hve among the
trees and in the fields, never growing older, never growing wiser,
children ever, rambling hand in hand through sunshine and among
flowery meadows, laying dowjti our heads on moss at night, in a
sweet sleep of purity and peace, and buried by the birds when we
were dead ! Some such picture, with no real world in it, bright with
the hght of our innocence, and vague as the stars afar oflf, was in my
mind all the way. I am glad to think there wore two stch guileless
lieai-ts at Peggotty's marrijige as httle Eui'ly's and mine. I am glad
188 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
to think the Loves and Graces took such airy forms in its homely
procession.
Well, we came to the old boat again in good time at night ; and
there Mr. and Mrs. Barkis bade us good bye, and drove away snugly
to their own home. I felt then, for the first time, that I had lost
Peggotty. I should have gone to bed with a sore heart indeed
under any other roof but that which sheltered little Em'ly's head,
Mr. Peggotty and Ham knew what was in my thoughts as well
as I did, and were ready with some supper and their hospitable faces
to drive it away. Little Em'ly came and sat beside me on the
locker, for the only time in all that visit ; and it was altogether a
wonderful close to a wonderful day.
It was a night tide ; and soon after we went to bed, Mr. Peggotty
and Ham went out to fish. I felt very brave at being left alone in
the solitary house, the [)rotector of Emily and Mrs. Gum midge, and
only wished that a lion or a serpent, or any ill-disposed monster,
would make an attack upon us, that I might destroy him, and cover
myself with glory. But as nothing of the sort happened to be
walking about on Yarmouth flats that night, I provided the best sub-
stitute I could by dreaming of dragons until morning.
With morning came Peggotty ; who called to me, as usual, under
my window as if Mr. Barkis the carrier had been from first to last a
dream too. After breakfast she took me to her own home, and a
beautiful httle home it was. Of all the moveables in it, I must have
been most impressed by a certain old bureau of some dark wood in
tlie parlor (the tile-floored kitchen was the general sitting-room), with
a retreating top which opened, let down, and became a desk, within
which was a large quarto edition of Fox's Book of Martyrs. This
precious volume, of which I do not recollect one word, I immediately
discovered and immediately applied myself to ; and I never visited
the house afterwards, but I kneeled on a chair, o|)ened the casket
where this gem was enshrined, spread my arms over the desk, and
fell to devouring the book afresh. I was chiefly edified, I am afraid,
by the pictures, which were numerous, and represented all kinds of
dismal horrors ; but the Martyrs and Peggotty's house ha^e been
inseparable in my mind ever since, and are now.
I took leave of Mr. Peggotty, and Ham, and. Mrs. Guramidge, mid
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 189
Kttle Em'ly, that day; and passed the night at Peggotty's, in a
little room in the roof (with the crocodile-book on a snelf by the
bed's head) which was to be always mine, Peggotty said, and should
always be kept for me in exactly the same state.
" Young or old, Davy dear, as long as I am alive and have this
house over ray head," said Peggotty, " you shall find it as if I ex-
pected you here directly every minute. I shall keep it every day, as
I used to keep your old little room, my darhng ; and if you was to
go to China, you might think of it as being kept just the same, all
the time you were away."
I felt the truth and constancy of my dear old nui-se, with all my
heart, and thanked her as well as I could. That was not very well,
for she spoke to me thus, with her arms round my neck, in the
morning, and I was going home in the morning, and I went home
in the morning, with hei'self and Mr. Barkis in the cart. They left
me at the gate, not easily or lightly ; and it was a strange sight to
me to see the cart go on, taking Peggotty away, and leaving me
under the old elm-trees looking at the house, in which there was no
face to look on mine with love or liking any more.
And now I fell into a state of neglect, which I cannot look back
upon without compassion. I fell at once into a solitary condition, —
apart fi-om all fi-iendly notice, apart fi-om the society of all other boys
of my own age, apart from all companionship but my own spirit-
less thoughts, — which seems to cast its gloom upon this paper as I
write.
What would I have given, to have been sent to the hardest school
that ever was kept ! — to have been taught something, anyhow, any-
where ! No such hope dawned upon me. They dishked me ; and
they sullenly, sternly, steadily, overlooked me. I think Mr. Murd-
stone's means were straitened at about this time ; but it is little to the
purpose. He could not bear me ; and in putting me from him he
tried, as I believe, to put away the notion that I had any claim upon
him — and succeeded.
I was not actively ill-used. I was not beaten, or starved ; but the
wrong that was done to me had no intervals of relenting, and was done
in a systematic, passionless manner. Day after day, week after
week, month after month, 1 was coldly neglected. I wonder some-
190 DAVID COrPERFIELD.
times, wlien I tliink of it, -^liat they would have done if I had been
taken with an illness ; whether I should have lain down in my lonely
room, and languished through it in my usual solitary way, or
whether anybody would have helped me out.
A\Tien Mr. and Miss Murdstone were at home, I took my meals
with them ; in their absence, I ate and drank by myself. At all
times I lounged about the house and neighbourhood quite disregard-
ed, except that they were jealous of my making any friends : think-
ing, perhaps, that, if I did, I might complain to some one. For this
reason, though ISir. Chilhp often asked me to go and see him (he
was a widower, having, some years before that, lost a little hght-
haired wife, whom I can just remember connecting in my own
thoughts with a pale tortoise-shell cat), it was but seldom that I en-
joyed the happiness of passing an afternoon in his closet of a sur-
gery ; reading some book that was new to me, with the smell of the
whole pharmacopoeia coming up my nose, or pounding something in
a mortar under his mild directions.
For the same reason, added no doubt to the old dislike of her, 1
was seldom allowed to visit Peggotty. Faithful to her promise, she
either came to see me, or met me somewhere near, once every week,
and never empty-handed ; but many and bitter were the disappoint-
ments I had, in being refused permission to pay a visit to her at her
house. Some few times, however, at long intervals, I was allowed
to go there ; and then I found out that Mr. Barkis was something
of a miser, or as Peggotty dutifully expressed it, was " a little near,"
and kept a heap of money in a box under his bed, which he pre-
tended was only full of coats and trousers. In this coffer, his riches
hid themselves with such a tenacious modesty, that the smallest in-
stalments could only be tempted out by artifice ; so that Peggotty
had to prepare a long and elaborate scheme, a very Gunpowder
Plot, for every Saturday's expenses.
AU this time I was so conscious of the waste of any promise I had
given, and of my being utterly neglected, that I should have been
perfectly miserable, I have no doubt, but foi the old books. They
were my only comfort ; and I was as true t? them as they were to
me, and read them over and ovei I don't know how many times
mr're.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 191
I now approach a period of my life, which a. can never lose the
remembrance of, while I remember anything ; and the recollection
of which has often, without my invocation, come l5efore me like a
ghost, and haunted happier times.
I had been out, one day, loitering somewhere, in the listless,
meditative manner that my way of life engendered, when, turning
the corner of a lane near our house, I came upon Mr. Murdstone
walking with a gentleman. I was confused, and was going by them,
when the gentleman cried :
" ^^^lat ! Brooks !"
" No, sir, David Copperfield," I said.
" Don't tell me. You are Brooks," said the gentleman. " You
are Brooks of Sheffield. That's your name."
At these words, I observed the gentleman more attentively. His
laugh coming to my remembrance too, I knew him to be Mr.
Quinion, whom I had gone over to Lowestoft with Mr. Murdstone to
Bee, before — it is no matter — I need not recall when.
" And how do you get on, and where are you being educated,
Brooks ?" said Mr. Quinion.
He had put his hand upon my shoulder, and turned me about, to
walk with them. I did not know what to reply, and glanced
dubiously at Mr. Murdstone.
" He is at home at present," said the latter. " He is not being
educated anywhere. I don't know what to do with him. He is a
difficult subject."
That old, double look was on me for a moment ; and then his eye
darkened with a frown, as it turned, in its aversion, elsewhere.
" Humph !" said Mr. Quinion, looking at us both, I thought.
"Fine weather!"
Silence ensued, and I was considering how I could best disengage
my shoulder from his hand, and go away, when he said :
" I suppose you are a pretty sharp fellow still ? Eh, Brooks ?"
" Aye ! He is sharp enough," said Mr. Murdstone, impatiently.
" You had better let him go. He will not thank you for troubhng
him."
On this hint, Mr. Quinion released me, and I made the best of
my way home. Looking back as I turned into the front garden, I
192 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
saw Mr. IMurdstone leaning against the wicket of the churchyard,
and Mr. Quinion talking to him. They were both looking after me,
and I felt that they were speaking of me.
Mr. Quinion lay at our house that night. After breakfast, the
next morning, I had put my chair away, and was going out of the
room, when Mr. Murdstone called me back. He then gravely
repaired to another table, where his sister sat herself at her desk,
Mr. Quinion, with his hands in his pockets, stood looking out of
>vindow ; and I stood looking at them all.
" David," said Mr. Murdstone, " to the young, this is a world for
action ; not for moping and droning in."
— " As you do,'' added his sister.
" Jane Murdstone, leave it to me, if you please. I say, David, to
the young, this is a world for action, and not for moping and
droning in. It is especially so for a young boy of your disposition,
which requires a great deal of correcting ; and to which no gi'eater
service can be done than to force it to conform to the ways of the
working world, and to bend it and break it."
" For stubbornness won't do here," said his sister. " What it
wants, is to be crushed. And crushed it must be. Shall be, too ! "
He gave her a look, half in remonstrance, half in approval, and
went on :
" I suppose you know, David, that I am not rich. At any rate,
you know it now. You have received some considerable education
already. Education is costly ; and even if it were not, and I could
afFoi-d it, I am of opinion that it would not be at all advantageous to
you to be kept at a school. What is before you, is a fight with tht»
world ; and the sooner you begin it, the better."
I think it occurred to me that I had already begun it, in my poor
way : but it occurs to me now, whether or no.
" You have heard ' the counting-house' mentioned sometimes,*
said Mr. Murdstone.
" The counting-house, sir ?" I repeated.
" Of Murdstone and Gi'inby, in the wine trade," he replied.
I suppose T looked uncertain, for he went on hastily :
" You have heard the ' counting-house' mentioned, or the hiis\
ness, or the cellars, or the wharf, or something about it."
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 198
" I think I have heard the business nentioned, sir," I said, re-
membering what I vaguely knew o^ his and his sister's resources.
*' ]^ut I don't know when."
" It does not matter when," he returned. " Mr. Quinion manages
that business."
I glanced at the latter deferentially as he stood looking out of
window.
" Mr. Quinion suggests that it gives employment to some other
boys, and that he sees no reason why it shouldn't, on the same terms,
give employment to you."
" He having," Mr. Quinion observed in a low voice, and half turn-
ing round, " no other prospect, Murdstone."
Mr. Murdstone, with an impatient, even an angry gesture, resum-
ed, without noticing what he had said :
"Those terms are, that you will earn enough for yourself to
provide for your eating and drinking, and pocket-money. Your
lodging (which I have arranged for) will be paid by me. So will
your washing — "
— " Which will be kept down to my estimate," said his sister.
" Your clothes will be looked after for you, too," said Mr. Murd-
stone ; " as you will not be able, yet awhile, to get them for
yom-self. So you are now going to London, David, with Mr.
Quinion, to begin the world on your own account."
" In short, you are provided for," observed his sister ; " and will
please to do your duty."
Though I quite understood that the purpose of this announcement
was to get rid of me, I have no distinct remembrance whether it
pleased or frightened me. My impression is, that I was in a state
of confusion about it, and, oscillating between the two points,
touched neither. Nor had I much time for the clearing of my
thoughts, as Mr. Quinion was to go upon the morrow.
Behold me, on the morrow, in a much-worn little white hat, with
a black crape round it for my mother, a black jacket, and a pair of
hard, stiff cor(?.uroy trousers — which Miss Murdstone considered the
best aiTuour for the leors in that fiijht with the world which was now
to come off; behold me so attired, and with my little worldly all
before me in a small trunk, sitting, a lone lorn child (as Mrs. Gum*
12
194 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
midge might have said), in the post-chaise that was carrying Mr.
Quinion to .the London coach at Yarmouth ! See, how our house
and church are lessening in the distance ; how the grave beneath
the tree is blotted out by intervening objects ; how the spire points
upv/ard fi'om my old playground no more, and the sky is empty
CHAPTER XL
I BEGIN LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT, AND DOn't LIKE IT
I KNOW enough of the world now, to have almost lost the capacity
of being much surprised by anj'thing; but it is matter of some
surprise to me, even now, that I can have been so easily thrown
away at such an age. A child of excellent abihties, and with strong
powers of observation, quick, eager, delicate, and soon hurt bodily or
mentally, it seems wonderful to me that nobody should have made
any sign in my behalf. But none was made ; and I became, at ten
years old, a little labouring hind in the service of Murdstone and
Grinby.
!Murdstone and Grinby's warehouse was at the water side. It
was down in Blackfriars. Modern improvements have altered the
place ; but it was the last house at the bottom of a narrow street,
curving down hill to the river, with some stairs at the end, where
people took boat. It was a crazy old house with a wharf of its own,
abutting on the water when the tide was in, and on the mud when
the tide was out, and hterally overrun with rats. Its panelled
rooms, discolored with the dirt and smoke of a hundred years, I
dare say ; its decajing flooi*s and staircase ; the squeaking and
scuffling of the old grey rats down in the c*?llars ; and the dirt and
rottenness of the place ; are things, not of many yeai-s ago, in my
mind, but of the present instant. They are all before me, just as
they were in the evil hour when I went among them for the first
time, with my trembling hand in Mr. Quini'^n's.
Murdstone and Grinby's trade was amon/x a good many kinds of
people, but an important branch of it was the supply of wines and
spints to certain packet ships. I forget now where they chietiy
went, but I think there were some amonir thf.'m that made vovagfos
both to the East and West Indies. I know that a great many
emjjty bottles were one of the consequences <»*" iliii' tralliu and thai
196
196 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
certain men and boys were employed to examine them against the
light, and reject those that were flawed, and to rinse and wash
them. When the empty bottles ran short, there were labels to be
pasted on full ones, or corks to be fitted to them, or seals to be put
upon the corks, or finished bottles to be packed in casks. All this
work was my work, and of the boys employed upon it I was one.
There were three or four of us, counting me. My working place
was estabhshed in a corner of the warehouse, where Mr. Quinion
could see me, when he chose to stand up on the bottom rail of his
stool in the counting-house, and look at me through a window above
the desk. Hither, on the first morning of my so auspiciously
beginning life on my own account, the oldest of the regular boys
was summoned to show me my business. His name was Mick
Walker, and he wore a ragged apron and a paper cap. He inform-
ed me that his father was a bargeman, and walked, in a black
velvet head-dress, in the Lord Mayor's show. He also informed me
that our principal associate would be another boy whom he intro-
duced by the — to me — extraordinary name of Mealy Potatoes. I
discovered, however, that this youth had not been christened by
that name, but that it had been bestowed upon him in the ware-
house, on account of his complexion, which was pale or mealy.
Mealy's father was a waterman, who had the additional distinction
of being a fireman, and was engaged as such at one of the large
theatres ; where some young relation of Mealy's — I think his little
sister — did Imps in the Pantomimes.
No words can express the secret agony of my soul as I sunk into
this companionship ; compared these henceforth every-day asso-
ciates with those of my happier childhood — not to say with Steer-
forth, Traddles, and the rest of those boys ; and felt my hopes of
growing up to be a learned and distinguished man crushed in my
bosom. The deep remembrance of the sense I had, of being utterly
without hope now ; of the shame I felt in my position ; of the
misery it was to my young heart to believe that day by day what I
had learned, and thought, and delighted in, and raised my fancy
and my emulation up by, would pass away from me, little by little,
never to be brought back any more ; cannot be written. As often
as Mick Walker went away in the course of that forenoon, I mingled
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 197
my teai-s with the water in which I was \va«^liing the bottles ; and
sobbed as if there were a flaw in my own breast, and it were in
danger of bursting.
The counting-house clock was at half-past twelve, and there was
general preparation for going to dinner, when Mr. Quinion tapped at
the counting-house window, and beckoned to me to go in. I went
in, and found there a stoutish, middle-aged person, in a brown sur-
tout and black tights and shoes, with no more hair upon his head
(which -svas a large one, and very shining) than there is upon an egg^
and with a very extensive face, which he turned full upon me. His
clothes were shabby, but he had an imposing shirt-collar on. He
carried a jaunty sort of a stick, with a large pair of rusty tassels to
it ; and a quizzing-glass hung outside his coat, — for ornament, I
afterwards found, as he very seldom looked thi'ough it, and couldn't
see anything when he did.
" This," said Mr. Quinion, in allusion to myself, " is he."
" This," said the stranger, with a certain condescending roll in his
voice, and a certain indescribable air of doing something genteel,
which impressed me very much, " is Master Copperfeld. I hope 1
see you well, sir ?"
I said I w^as very well, and hoped he was. I was sufficiently ill at
ease, Heaven knows ; but it was not in my nature to complain much
at that time of my life, so I said I was very well, and hoped he was.
" I am," said the stranger, " thank Heaven, quite well. I have
received a letter from Mr. Murdstone, in which he mentions that he
would desire me to receive into an apartment in the rear of my
house, which is at present unoccupied — and is, in short, to be let as
a — in short," said the stranger, with a smile and in a burst of confi-
dencf , " as a bed-room — the young beginner whom I have now the
plea' ure to — " and the stranger waved his hand, and settled his
chin in his shirt collar.
" This Ls Mr. Micawber," said Mr. Quinion to me.
" Aliem !" said the stranger, " that is my name."
" Mr. Micawber," said Mr. Quinion, " is known to Mr. Murdstone.
He takes orders for us on commission, when he can get any. He
has been written to by Mr. Murdstone, on the subject of your lodg-
ings, and he will receive you as a lodger."
198 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
"My address," said Mr. Micawber, "is Windsor Tf;rrnrr. C ly
Road. I — in short," said Mr. Micawber, with the same geiiteci dit
and in another burst of confidence — " I hve there."
I made him a bow.
" Under the impression," said Mr. Micawber, " that your peregri-
nations in this metropoK» have not as yet been extensive, and that
you might have some difficulty in penetrating the arcana of the
Modern Babylon in the direction of the City Road — in short," said
Mr. Micawber, in another burst of confidence, " that you might lose
yourself — I shall be happy to call this evening, and install you in
the knowledge of the nearest way."
I thanked him with all my heart, for it was friendly in him to
offer to take that trouble.
" At what hour," said Mr. Micawber, " shall I — "
" At about eight," said Mr. Quinion.
" At about eight," said Mr. Micawber. " I beg to wish you good
day, Mr. Quinion. I will intrude no longer."
So he put on his hat, and went out with his cane under his arm :
very upright, and humming a tune when he was clear of the count-
ing-house.
Mr. Quinion then formally engaged me to be as useful as I could
in the warehouse of Murdstone and Grinby, at a salary, I think, of
six shillings a week. I am not clear whether it was six or seven. I
am inclined to believe, from my uncertainty on this head, that it was
six at first and seven afterwards. He paid me a week down (from
his own pocket, I believe), and I gave Mealy sixpence out of it to
get my trunk earned to Windsor TeiTace at night : it being too
heavy for my strength, small as it was. I paid sixpence more for
my dinner, which was a meat pie and a turn at a neighbouring
pump ; and passed the hour wliich was allowed for that meal, in
walkino- about the streets.
At the appointed time in the evening, Mr. Micawber reappeared.
I washed my hands and face, to do the greater honour to his
gentility, and we walked to our house, as I suppose I must now call
it, together ; Mr. Micawber impressing the names of streets, and the
shapes of corner houses upon me, as we went along, that I might
find my way back, easily, in the morning.
Arrived at his house m Windsor Terrace (wliich I noticed was
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 109
shabby, like himself, but also, like liimself, made all the show it
could), he presented me to Mrs. Micawber, a thin and faded lady,
not at all youn<^, who was sitting in the j»arlor (the fii-st floor was
altogether unfurnished, and the Winds were kept down to delude the
neighbours), with a baby at her breast. This baby was one of
twins ; and I may remark here that I hardly ever, in all my expe-
rience of the family, saw both the twms detached from Mrs. Micawber
at the same time. One of them was always taking refreshment.
There were two other children,: Master Micawber, aged about
four, and Miss Micawber, aged about three. These, and a dark-com-
plexioned young woman, with a habit of snorting, who was servant
to the family, and informed me, before half-an-hour had expired, that
she was " a Orfling," and came from St. Luke's workhouse in the
neighbourhood, completed the establishment. My room was at the
top of the house, at the back : a close chamber ; stencilled all over
with an ornament which my young imagination represented as a
blue muffin, and very scantily furnished.
" I never thought," said Mrs. Micawber, when she came up, twin
and all, to show me the apartment, and sat down to take breath,
" before I was married, when I lived with papa and mama, that I
should ever find it necessary to take a lodger. But Mr. Micawber
being in difficulties, all considerations of private feehng must give
way."
I said : " Yes, ma'am."
" Mr. Micawber's difficulties are almost overwhelming just at pre-
sent," said Mrs. Micawber ; " and whether it is possible to bring him
through them, I don't know. When I hved at home with papa
and mama, I really should have hardly understood what the word
meant, in the sense in which I now employ it, but experientia does
it — as papa used to say."
I cannot satisfy myself whether she told me that Mr. ^Micawber
had been an officer in the Marines, or whether I have imagined it.
I only know that I believe to this hour that he was in the Marines
once upon a time, without knowing why. He was a sort of town
traveller for a number of miscellaneous houses, now ; but made httle
or nothing of it, I am afraid.
" If Mr. Micawber's creditors will not give him time," said Mrs.
Micawber, " they must take the consequences ; and the sooner they
200 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
brinof it t<5 an issue the better. Blood cannot be obtained from a
stone, neitlier can anytbixig on account be obtained at present (not
to mention law expenses) from Mr. Micawber."
I never can quite understand whether my precocious self-depend-
ence confused Mi-s. Micawber in reference to my age, or whether she
was so full of the subject that she would have talked about it to the
very twins if there had been nobody else to communicate with, but
this was the strain in which she began, and she went on accordingly
all the time I knew her.
Poor Mi-s. Micawber ! She said slie had tiied to exert herself ;
and so, I have no doubt, she had. The centre of the street-door was
perfectly covered with a great brass-plate, on which was engraved
" Mrs. Micawber's Boarding Establishment for Young Ladies ;" but
I never found that any young lady had ever been to school there ;
or that any young lady ever came, or proposed to come : or that the
least preparation was ever made to receive any young lady. The
only visitors I ever saw or heard of, were c; ^iditors. They used to
come at all hours, and some of them were quite ferocious. One
dirty-faced man, I think he was a bootmaker, used to edge himself
into the passage as early as seven o'clock in the morning, and call
up the stairs to Mr. Micawber — " Come ! You ain't out yet, you
know. Pay us, will you ? Don't hide, you know ; that's mean. I
wouldn't be mean if I was you. Pay us, will you ? You just pay
us, d'ye hear ? Come !" Receiving no answer to these taunts, he
would mount in his wrath to the words " swindlers" and " robbers ;"
and these being ineffectual too, would sometimes go to the extremity
of crossing the street, and roaring up at the windows of the second
floor, where he knew Mr. Micawber was. At these times, Mr.
Micawber would be transported with grief and mortification, even to
the length (as I was once made aware by a scream from his wife) of
making motions at himself with a razor ; but within half an hour
afterwards^ he would polish up his shoes with extraordinary pains,
and go out, humming a tune with a greater air of gentility than
ever. Mrs. Micawber was quite as elastic. I have known her to be
thrown into fainting fits by the king's taxes at three o'clock, and to
eat lamb chops, breaded, and drink warm ale (paid for with two tea-
spoons that had gone to the pawnbroker's) at four. On one occa-
sion, when an execution had just been put in, coming home through
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 201
some chance as early as six o'clock, I saw her lying (of course with a
twin) under tho grate in a swoon, with her hair all torn about hei
face ; but I never knew her mere cheerful than she was, that very
same night, over a veal-cutlet before the kitchen fire, telling me
stories about her papa and mama, and the company they used to keep.
In this house, and with this family, I past my leisure time. My
own exclusive breakfast of a penny loaf and a penny worth of milk,
I pro\ided myself I kept another small loaf, and a modicum of
cheese, on a particular shelf of a particular cujjboard, to make my
supper on when I came back at night. This made a hole in the six
or seven shillings, I know well ; and I was out at the warehouse all
day, and had to support myself on that money all the week. From
Monday morning until Saturday night, I had no advice, n<? counsel,
no encouragement, no consolation, no assistance, no support, of any
kind, from any one, that I can call to mind, as I hope to go to
heaven !
I was so young and childish, and so Wt'Aa, qualified — ^how could I
be otherwise ? — to undertake the whoL charge of my own existence,
that often, in going to Murdstone and Grinby's, of a morning, I
could not resist the stale pastry put out for sale at half-price at the
pastrycook's doors, and spent in that, the money I should have kept
for my dinner. Then, I went without my dinner, or bought a roll
or a shce of pudding. I remember two pudding-shops, between
which I was divided, according to my finances. One was in a court
close to St. Martin's Church — at the back of the church — which is
now removed altogether. The pudding at that shop was made of
currants, and was rather a special pudding, but was dear, twopenny-
worth not being larger than a pennyworth of more ordinary pudding.
A good shop for the latter was in the Strand — somewhere in that
part which has been rebuilt since. It was a stout pale pudding,
heavy and flabby, and with great flat raisins in it, stuck in whole at
wide distances apart. It came up hot at about my time every day;
and many a day did I dine off" it. When I dined regularly and
handsomely, I had a saveloy and a penny-loaf, or a fourpenny plate
of red beef from a cook's shop ; or a plate of bread and cheese and
a glass of beer, from a miseraljle old ))ublic-house opposite our place
of business, called the Lion, or the Lion and sonictliing else that I
have forgotten. Once, I remember, cairying my own bread (whick
202 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
I had brouglit from home in the morning), under my arm, wrapped
in a piece of paper, Uke a book, and going to a famous alamode
beef-house near Drury Lane, and ordering a " small plate" of that
delicacy to eat with it. What the waiter thought of such a strange
Uttle apparition coming in all alone, I don't know ; but I can see him
now, staring at me as I ate my dinner, and bringing up the other
waiter to look. I gave him a halfpenny for himself, and I wish he
hadn't taken it.
We had half-an-hour, I think, for tea. When I had money
enough, I used to get half-a-pint of ready-made coffee and a shce of
bread and butter. When I had none, I used to look at a venison-
shop in Fleet-street ; or I have strolled, at such a time, as far as
Covent Garden Market, and stared at the pine-apples. I was fond
of wandering about the Adelphi, because it was a mysterious place,
with those dark arches. I see myself emerging one evening from
some, of these arches, on a little pubhc-house close to the river, with
an open space before it, where some coal-heavers were dancing ; to
look at whom, I sat down upon a bench. I wonder what they
thoujrht of me !
I was such a child, and so little, that frequently when I went into
the bar of a strange public-house for a glass of ale or porter, to
moisten what I had had for dinner, they were afraid to give it me.
I remember one hot evening I went into the bar of a public-house,
and said to the landlord :
" What is your best — your very best — ale a glass ?" For it was
a special occasion. I don't know what. It may have been my
birth-day.
" Twopence-halfpenny," says the landlord, " is the price of the
Genuine Stunnino; ale."
"Then,'* says I, producing the money, "just draw me a glass of
the Genuine Stunning, if you please, with a good head to it."
The landlord looked at me in return over the bar, from head to
foot, with a strange smile on his face ; and instead of drawing the
beer, looked round the screen aud said something to his wife. She
came out from beh'.nd it, with her work in her hand, and joined him
in surveying me. Here we stand, all three, before me now. The
landlord in his shirt sleeves, leaning against the bar window-frame ,
his wife looking over the httle half-door ; and I, in some confusion,
My magnificent Order at the I'ublic House.
u^
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 203
looking up at them from outside the partition. They asked me a
good many questions ; as, what my name was, how old I was, where
I lived, How I was employed, and how I came there. To all of
which, that I might commit nobody, I invented, I am afi-aid, appro-
priate answers. They served me with the ale, though I suspect it
was not the Genuine Stunning ; and the landlord's wife, opening the
little half-door of the bar, and bending down, gave me my money
back, and gave me a kiss that was half admiring and half compas-
sionate, but all womanly and good, I am sure.
I know I do not exaggerate, unconsciously and unintentionally,
the scantiness of my resources or the difficulties of my life. I know
that if a sliilhng were given me by Mr. Quinion at any time, I spent
it in a dinner or a tea. I know that I worked, from morning until
night, with common men and boys, a shabby child. I know that I
lounged about the streets, insufficiently and unsatisfactorily fed. I
know that, but for the mercy of God, I might easily have been,
for any care that was taken of me, a little robber or a httle
vagabond.
Yet I held some station at Murdstone and Grinby's too. Besides
that Mr. Quinion did what a careless man so occupied, and dealing
with a thing so anomalous, could, to treat me as one upon a different
footing from th<j rest, I never said, to man or boy, how it was that
I came to be there, or gave the least indication of being sorry that I
was there. That I suffered in secret, and that I suffered exquisitely,
no one ever knew but I. How much I suffered, it is, as I have said
already, utterly beyond my power to tell. But I kept my own
counsel, and I did my work. I knew from the first, that, if I could
not do my work as well as any of the rest, I could not hold myself
above slight and contempt. I soon became at least as expeditious
and as skilful as either of the other boys. Though perfectly familiar
with them, my conduct and manner were different enough fi-om
theirs to place a space between us. They and the men generally
spoke of me as " the httle gent," or " the young Suffolker." A
certain man named Gregory, who was foreman of the packers, and
another named Tipp, who was the carman, and wore a red jacket,
used to address me sometimes as "David:" but I think it was
mostly when we were very confidential, and when I had made some
efforts to entertain them, over our work, with some results of the old
204 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
readings; wliich were fast perishing out of my remembrance.
Mealy Potatoes uprose once, and rebelled against my being so dis
tinf^uished ; but Mick Walker settled him in no time.
My rescue from this kind of existence I considered quite hopeless,
and abandoned, as such, altogether. I am solemnly convinced that
I never for one hour was reconciled to it, or w^as otherwise than
miserably unhappy ; but I bore it ; and even to Peggotty, partly for
the love of her and partly for shame, never in any letter (though
many passed between us) revealed the truth.
Mr. Micawber's difficulties were an addition to the distressed state
of my mind. In my forlorn state I became quit<2 attached to the
family, and used to walk about, busy with Mrs. Micawber's calcula-
tions of ways and means, and heavy with the weight of Mr. Micaw-
ber's debts. On a Saturday night, which was my grand treat, —
partly because it was a gi'eat thing to walk home \^^th six or seven
shillings in my pocket, looking into the shops and thinking what
such a sura would buy, and partly because I went home early, — •
Mi's. Micawber would make the most heart-rending confidences to
me ; also on a Sunday morning, when I mixed the portion of tea or
coflfee I had bought over-night, in a little shaving pot, and sat late
at my breakfast. It was nothing at all unusual for Mr. Micawber to
sob violently at the beginning of one of these Saturday night con-
versations, and sing about Jack's delight being his lovely Nan,
towards the end of it. I have knoT\ai him to come home to supper
with a flood of tears, and a declaration that nothing; was now left
but a jail ; and go to bed making a calculation of the expense of
putting bow- windows to the house, " in case anything turned up,"
which was his favorite expression. And Mrs. Micawber was just the
game.
A curious equality of friendship, originating, I suppose, in our
respective circumstances, sprung up between me and these people,
notwithstanding the ludicrous disparity in our years. But I never
allowed myself to be prevailed upon to accept any invitation to eat
and drink with them out of their stock (knowing that they got on
badly with the butcher and baker, and had often not too much for
themselves), until ]\Irs. Micawber took me into her entire confidence,
lliis she did one evenino; as follows :
" Master Copperfield," said Mrs. Micawber, " I make no strangei
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 205
of y(ju, and therefore do not hesiUite to say that Mr. Micawber'a
difficulties are coming to a crisis."
It made me very miserable to hear it, and I looked at Mi-s. Micaw-
ber's red eyes ^vith the utmost sympathy.
" With the exception of the heel of a Dutch cheese — which is not
adapted to the wants of a young family" — said Mi-s. Micawber,
" there is really not a scrap of anything in the larder. I was accus-
tomed to speak of the larder when I hved ^^ith papa and mama, and
I use the word almost unconsciously. What I mean to express, is,
that there is nothing to eat in the house."
" Dear me !" I said, in gi-eat concern.
I had two or three shillings of my week's money in my pocket — •
from which I presume that it must have been on a Wednesday night
when we held this conversation — and I hastily produced them, and
with heartfelt emotion begged Mrs. Micawber to acce})t of them as
a loan. But that lady, kissing me, and making me put them bark
in my pocket, replied that she couldn't think of it. '
" No, my dear Master Copperfield," said she, " hr be it from my
thoughts ! But you have a discretion beyond your years, and can
render me another kind of service, if you will ; and a service I will
thankfidly accept of."
I begged Mrs. Micawber to name it.
" I have parted with the plate myself," said Mrs. Micawber.
"Six tea, two salt, and a pair of sugars, I have at different times
borrowed money on, in secret, with my own hands. But the twins
are a great tie ; and to me, with my recollections of papa and mama,
these transactions are very painful. There are still a few trifles that
we could part with. Mr. Micawber's feelings would never allow him
to dispose of them ; and Clickett" — this was the girl from the work-
house— " being of a vulgar mind, would take painful hberties if so
much confidence was reposed in her. Master Copperfield, if I might
ask you" —
I understood Mrs. Micawber now, and begged her to make use of
me to any extent. I began to dispose of the more port;iblo articles
of property that very evening ; and went out on a similar expedition
almost every morning, before I went to Murdstone and Grinby's.
Mr. Micawber had a few books on a little chiftoiiier, which lie
206 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
called tlie library ; and those went first. I carried tliem, one after
another, to a bookstall in the City Road — one part of which, iiear
our house, was almost all bookstalls and bird-shops then — and sold
them for whatever they would bring. The keeper of this bookstall,
who lived in a little house behind it, used to get tipsy every night,
and to be violently scolded by his Avife every morning. More than
once, when I went there eaily, I had audience of him in a turn-up
bedstead, with a cut in his forehead or a black eye, bearing witness
to his excesses over night (I am afraid he was quarrelsome in his
drink), and he, with a shaking hand, endeavoring to find the needful
shillings in one or other of the pockets of his clothes, which lay
upon the floor, while his wife, with a baby in her arms and her shoes
down at heel, never left oflf rating him. Sometimes he had lost his
money, and then he would ask me to call again ; but his wife had
always got some — had taken his, I dare say, while he was drunk —
and secretly completed the bargain on the stairs, as we went down
together.
At the pa^rabroker's shop, too, I began to be very well known.
The principal gentleman who ofiiciated behind the counter, took a
good deal of notice of me ; and often got me, I recollect, to dechne
a Latin noun or adjective, or to conjugate a Latin verb, in his ear,
while he transacted my business. After all these occasions Mrs.
Micawber made a little treat, which was generally a supper ; and
there was a peculiar relish in these meals which I well remember.
At last Mr. Micawber's difficulties came to a ci'isis, and he was
arrested early one morning, and carried over to the King's Bench
Prison in the Borough. He told me, as he went out of the house,
that the God of day had now gone down upon him — and I really
thought his heart was broken and mine too. But I heard, after-
wards, that he was seen to play a lively game at skittles, before noon.
On the first Sunday after he was taken there, I was to go and see
him, and have dinner with him. I was to ask my way to such a
place, and just short of that place I should see such another place,
and just short of that I sliould see a yard, which I was to cross, and
keep straight on until I saw a turnkey. All this I did; and when
at last I did see a turnkey (pooj ittle fellow that I was 1), and
thought how, when Roderick Random was in a debtor's prison, there
DAVID COrPEIlFIELD. 207
was a man tliere with nothing on him but an old rug, the tm-nkey
swam before my dimmed eyes and my beating heart.
Mr. Micawber was waiting for me within the gate, and we went up
to his room (top story but one), and cried very much. He solemnly
conjured me, I remember, to take warnmg by his fate ; and to ob-
serve that if a man had twenty pounds a-year for his income, and
spent nineteen pounds nineteen shilhng-s and sixpence, he would be
happy, but that if he spent twenty pounds one he would be imsera-
ble. After which he borrowed a shilhng of me for porter, gave me
u written order on Mrs. Micawber for the amount, and put away his
pocket-handkerchief, and cheered up.
We sat before a little fire, with two bricks put within the rusted
grate, one on each side, to prevent its burning too many coals ; until
another debtor, who shared the room with Mr. Micawber, came in
from the bakehouse with the loin of mutton which was our joint-
stock repast. Then I was sent up to " Captain Hopkins " in the
room overhead, with Mr. Micaw^ber's comphments, and I was his
young friend, and would Captain Hopkins lend me a knife and
fork.
Captain Hopkins lent me the knife and fork, with his compliments
to Mr. Micawber. There was a very dirty lady in his little room,
and two wan girls, liis daughters, with shock heads of hair. I
thought it was better to borrow Captain Hopkins's knife and fork,
than Captain Hopkins's comb. The Captain himself was in the last
extremity of shabbiness, with large whiskers, and an old, old brown
great-coat with no other coat below it. I saw his bed rolled up in
a corner ; and" what plates and dishes and pots he had, on a shelf;
and I divined (God knows how) that though the two girls with the
shock heads of hair were Captain Hopkins's children, the dirty lady
was not married to Captain Hopkins. My timid station on his
threshold was not occupied more than a coujile of minutes at most ;
but I came down again with all this in my knowledge, as surely as
the knife and fork were in my hand.
There was something gipsy -like and agreeable in the dinner, after
all. I took back Captain Hopkins's knife and fork early in the after-
noon, and went home to comfort Mrs. Micawber with an account of my
visit. She fainted when she saw me return, and made a little jug
of egg-hot afterwards to console us wl ile we talked it over.
203 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
I don't know how tlie houseliold furniture came to be sold for the
family benefit, or who sold it, except that / did not. Sold it was,
however, and carried away in a van • except the bed, a few chairs,
and the kitchen-table. With these possessions we encamped, as it
were, in the two parlore of the emptied house in Windsor Terrace ;
Mrs. Tklicawber, the children, the Orfling, and myself ; and hved m
those rooms night and day. I have no idea for how long, though it
seem% to me for a long time. At last Mrs. Micawber resolved to
move into the prison, where Mr. Micawber had now secured a room
to himself. So I took the key of the house to the landlord, who was
very glad to get it ; and the beds were sent over to the King's
Bench, except mine, for which a little room was hired outside the
walls in the neighbourhood of that Institution, veiy much to my
satisfaction, since the Micawbers and I had become too used
to one another, in our troubles, to part. The Orfling was likewise
accommodated with an mexpensive lodging in the same neighbour-
hood. Mine was a quiet back garret with a sloping roof, command-
ing a pleasant prospect of a timber-yard ; and when I took posses-
sion of it, with the reflection that Mr. Micawber's troubles had come
to a crisis at last, I thought it quite a paradise.
All this time I was working at Murdstone and Grinby's in the
same common way, and with the same common companions, and
with the same sense of unmerited degradation as at first. But I
never, happily for me no doubt, made a single acquaintance, or
spoke to any of the many boys whom I saw daily in going to the
warehouse, in coming from it, and in prowling about the streets at
meal times. I led the same secretly unhappy life ; but I led it in
the same lonely, self-reliant manner. The only changes I am con-
scious of are, firstly, that I had grown more shabby, and secondly,
that I was now relieved of much of the Aveight of Mr. and Mi-s.
Micawber's cares ; for some relatives or friends had engaged to help
them at their present pass, and they lived more comfortably in the
prison than they had lived for a long while out of it. I used to
breakfast with them now, in A-irtue of some arrangement, of wliich I
have forgotten the details. I forget, too, at what hour the gates
were opened in the morning, admitting of my going in ; but I know
that I was often up at six o'clock, and that my favorite lounging-
place in the interval was old London Bridge, where I was wont to
DAVID COPPERFIELD. -00
sit in one of txie stone recesses, watching the people going by, or to
look over the balustrades at the sun shining in the water, and light-
ing up the golden flame on the top of the Monument. The Orfling
met me here sometimes, to be told some astonishing fictions respect-
ing the wharves and the Tower ; of which I can say no more than
that I hope I beheved them myself. In the evening I used to go
back to the prison, and walk up and down the parade with Mr.
Micawber : or play casino with Mrs. Micawber, and hear reminis-
cences of her papa and mama. Whether Mr. Murdstone knew
where I was, I am unable to say. I never told them at Murdstone
and Grinby's.
Mr. Micawber's affairs, although past their crisis, were very much
involved bv reason of a certain " Deed," of which I used to hear a
great deal, and which I suppose, now, to have been some former
composition with his creditors, though I was so far from being clear
about it then, that I am conscious of ha\ing confounded it with
those demoniacal parchments which are held to have, once upon a
time, obtained to a great extent in Germany. At last this docu-
ment appeared to be got out of the way, somehow ; at all events it
ceased to be the rock-ahead it had been ; and Mrs. Micawber
informed me that "her family" had decided that Mr. Micawber
should apply for his release under the Insolvent Debtors Act, which
would set him free, she expected, in about six weeks.
" And then," said Mr. Micawber, who was present, " I have no
doubt I shall, please Heaven, begin to be beforehand with the world,
and to hve in a perfectly new manner, it^ — in short, if anything turns
up."
By way of going in for anything that might be on the cards, I call
to mind that Mr. Micawber, about this time, composed a petition to,
the House of Commons, praying for an alteration in the law of im-
prisonment for debt. I set down this remembrance here, becaase it
is an instance to myself of the manner in which I fitted my old
books to my altered life, and made stories for myself out of the
streets, and out of men and women ; and how some main point«i in
the character I shall unconsciously develope, I suppose, in writing
my life, were gradually forming all this while.
There was a club in the prison, in wliich Mr. Micawber, as a
gentleman, was a great authority. Mi-. Micawber had stilted his ides
13
210 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
of this petition to the club, and the club had strongly approved of
the same. Wherefore Mr. Micawber (who was a thoroughly good-
natured man, and as active a creature about everything but his own
affairs as ever existed, and never so happy as when he was busy about
something that could never be of any profit to him) set to work at
the petition, invented it, engrossed it on an immense sheet of paper,
spread it out on a table, and appointed a time for all the club, and
all within the walls if they chose, to come up to his room and
sign it.
Allien I heard of this approaching ceremony, I was so anxious t«
see them all come in, one after another, though I knew the greatei
part of them already, and they me, that I got an hour's leave of
absence from Murdstone and Grinby's, and established myself in a
comer for that purpose. As many of the principal members of the
club as could be got mto the small room without filling it, supported
Mr. Micawber in front of the petition, while my old friend Captain
Hopkins (who had w^ashed liimself, to do honor to so solemn an
occasion) stationed himself close to it, to read it to all who were
unacquainted with its contents. The door was then thrown open,
and the general population began to come in, in a long file : several
waiting outside, while one entered, affixed his signatm*e, and went
out. To everybody in succession, Captain Hopkins said : " Have
you read it ? "— " :N"o."— " Would you like to hear it read ? " If he
weakly showed the least disposition to hear it. Captain Hopkins, in a
loud sonorous voice, gave him every woi'd of it. The Captain
would have read it twenty thousand times, if twenty thousand
people would have heard him, one by one. I remember a certain
luscious roll he gave to such 2:)hrases as " The people's representa-
tives in Parhament assembled," " Your petitioners therefore humbly
approach your honorable house," " His gracious Majesty's unfortunate
subjects," as if the w^ords were something real in his mouth, and
delicious to taste ; Mr. Micawber, meanwhile, listening with a little
of an author's vanity, and contemplating (not severely) the spikes
on the opposite wall.
As I walked to and fro daily between Southwark and Blackfriai's,
and lounged about at meal-times in obscure streets, the stones of
which may, for anything I know, be worn at this moment by my
childish feet, I wonder how many of these' people were wanting in
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 211
the crowd that used to come filing before me in review again, to the
echo of Captain Hopkins's voice ! When my thoughts go buck,
now, to that slow agony of my youth, I wonder how much of the
histories I invented for such people hangs like a mist of fancy over
well-remembered facts ! When I tread the old gTound, I do not
wonder that I seem to see and pity, going on before me, an innocent
romantic boy, making his imaginative world out of such strange
experiences and sordid things !
CHAPTER XII.
LIKING LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT NO BETTER, I FORM A GREAT
RESOLUTION.
In due time, Mr. Micawber's petition was ripe for hearing ; and
that gentleman was ordered to be discharged under the act, to my
great joy. His creditors were not implacable ; and Mrs. Micawber
informed me that even the revengeful bootmaker had declared in
open court that he bore him no malice, but that when money was
owing to him he hked to be paid. He said he thought it was human
nature.
Mr. Micawber returned to the King's Bench when his case was
over, as some fees were to be settled, and some formalities observed,
before he could be actually released. The club received him with
transport, and held an harmonic meeting that evening in his honor ;
while Mi-s. Micawber and I had a lamb's fry in jjrivate, suiTounded
by the sleeping family.
" On such an occasion I \vill give you. Master Copperfield," said
Mrs. Micawber, " in a little more flip," for we had been having
some already, " the memory of my papa and mama."
" Are they dead, ma'am ? " I enquired, after drinking the toast in
a wine-glass.
" My mama departed this life," said ^Irs. Micawbor, " before Mr.
Micawber's difficulties commenced, or at least before tl ey became
pressing. My papa lived to bail Mr. Micawber several times, and
then expired, regretted by. a numerous circle."
Mrs. Micawbor shook lier head, and dropped a jnuus tear upju
the twin wlio happened to be in hand.
212 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
As I could hardly hope for a more favourable opportunity of
putting a question in which I had^ a near interest, I said to Mrs.
Micawber :
" May I ask, ma'am, what you and Mr. Micawber intend to do,
now that Mr. Micawber is out of his difficulties, and at hberty ?
Have you settled yet ?"
"My family," said Mrs. Micawber, w^ho always said those two
words with an air, though I never could discover who came under
the denomination, "my family are of opinion that Mr. Micawber
should quit London, and exert his talents in the country. Mr.
Micawber is a man of great talent, Master Copperfield."
I said I was sure of that.
" Of great talent," repeated Mrs. Micawber. " My family are of
opinion, that, with a httle interest, something might be done for a
man of his abihty in the Custom House. The influence of my
family being local, it is their wish that Mr. Micawber should go
down to Plymouth. They think it indispensable that he should be
upon the spot."
" That he may be ready ?" I suggested.
" Exactly," returned Mrs. Micawber. " That he may be ready —
in case of anything turning up."
" And do you go, too, ma'am ?"
The events of the day, in combination with the twins, if not with
the flip, had made Mrs. Micawber hysterical, and she shed teai's as
she rephed :
" I never will desert Mr. Micawber. Mr. Micawber may have
concealed his difficulties from me in the first instance, but his san-
guine temper may have led him to expect that he would overcome
them. The pearl necklace and bracelets which I inherited from
mama, have been disposed of for less than half their value ; and the
set of coral, which was the wedding gift of my papa, has been actu-
ally thrown away for nothing. But I never will desert Mr. Micaw-
ber. No I" cried Mrs. Micawber, more affected than before, " I
never will do it ! It 's of no use asking me !"
I felt quite uncomfortable — as if Mi-s. Micawber supposed I had
asked her to do anything of the sort ? — and sat looking at her in
alarm.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 213
*' Mr. Micawber has his faults. I do not deny that he is improvn-
dent. I do not deny that he has kept me in the dark as to hia
resources and his liabiUties, both," she went on, looking at the wall ;
" but I ne\er will desert Mr. Micawber !"
Mrs. Micawber having now raised her voice into a perfect scream,
1 was so frightened that I ran off to the club-room, and disturbed
Mr. Micawber in the act of presiding at a long table, and leading
the chorus of
Gee up, Dobbin,
Gee ho, Dobbin,
Gee up, Dobbin,
Gee up, and gee ho — o — o !
— ^with the tidings that Mrs. Micawber was in an alarming state,
upon which he immediately bui*st into tears, and came away with
me with his waistcoat full of the heads and tails of shrimps, of which
he had been partaking.
" Enmia, my angel !" cried Mr. Micawber, running into the room ;
" what is the matter ?"
" I never will desert you, Micawber !" she exclaimed.
" My life !" said Mr. Micawber, taking her in his arms. " I am
perfectly aware of it."
"He is the parent of my children! He is the father of my
twins ! He is the husband of my affections," cried Mrs.
Micawber, strugghng ; " and I ne — ver — will — desert Mr. Mic-
awber !"
Mr. Micawber was so deeply affected by this proof of her devotion
(as to me, I was dissolved in tears), that he hung over her in a
passionate manner, imploring her to look up, and to be calm. But
the more he asked Mrs. Micawber to look up, the more she fixed
her eyes on nothing ; and the more he asked her to compose her-
self, the more she wouldn't. Consequently Mr. Micawber was soon
so overcome, that he mingled his tears with hers and mine ; until
he begged me to do him the favor of taking a chair on the staircase,
while he got her into bed. I would have taken my leave for the
night, but he would not hear of my doing that until the strangeiis'
bell should ring. So I sat at the staircase window, until he came
out with another chair and j(nned me.
" How is Mrs. Micawber now, sir ?"
214 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Very low," said Mr. Micawber, shaking his head ; " re-action.
Ah, this has been a dreadful day ! We stand alone now — every-
thing is gone fi'om us !"
Mr. Micawber pressed my hand, and groaned, and afterwards shed
tears. I was greatly touched, and disappointed too, for I had
expected that we should be quite gay on this happy and long-
looked for occasion. But Mr. and Mrs. Micawber were so used to
their old difficulties, I think, that they felt quite shipwrecked when
they came to consider that they were released from them. All their
elasticity was departed, and I never saw them half so wretched as
on this night ; insomuch that when the bell rang, and Mr. Micawber
walked with me to the lodge, and parted from me there with a
blessing, I felt quite afi-aid to leave him by himself, he was so pro-
foundly miserable.
But through all the confrision and lowness of spirits in which we
had been, so unexpectedly to me, involved, I plainly discerned that
Mr. and Mrs. Micawber and their family were going away from
Loudon, and that a parting between us was near at hand. It was
in my walk home that night, and m the sleej^less hours which fol-
lowed when I lay in bed, that the thought first occurred to me —
though I don't know how it came into my head — which afterwards
shaped itself into a settled resolution.
I had gi"own to be so accustomed to the Micawbers, and had been
so intimate with them in their distresses, and was so utterly friend-
less without them, that the prospect of being thrown upon some
new shift for a lodging, and going once more among unknown
people, was like being that moment turned adrift into my present
hfe, with such a knowledge of it ready made, as experience had
given me. All the sensitive feehngs it wounded so cruelly, aU the
shame and misery it kept alive vdthin my breast, became more
poignant as I thought of this ; and I detei'mined that the life was
unendurable.
That there was no hope of escape fi'om it, unless the escape was
my own act, I knew quite well. I rarely heaid from Miss Murd-
stone, and never from Mr. Murdstone : but two or three parcels of
made or mended clothes had come ip for me, consigned to Mr.
Quinion, and in each there was a scrap of paper to the effect that J.
M. trusted D. C. was applying himse.f to business, and devoting
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 215
himself wholly to his duties — not the least hint of my ever being
anything else than the common drudge into which I was fast settling
down.
The very next day showed me, while my mind was in the fiist
agitation of what it had conceived, that Mi-s. Micawber had not
spoken of their going away without warrant. They took a lodging
in the hoase where I lived, for a week ; at the expiration of which
time they were to start for Plymouth. Mr. Micawber himself came
down to the counting-house, in the afternoon, to tell Mr. Quinion
that he must relinquish me on the day of his departure, and to give
me a high character, wliich I am sure I deserved. And Mr. Quinion,
calling in Tipp the carman, who was a married man, and had a
room to let, quartered me prospectively on him — by our mutual
consent, as he had every reason to think ; for I said nothing, though
my resolution was now taken.
I passed my evenings with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, during the
remaining term of our residence under the same roof; and I think
we became fonder of one another as the time went on. On the last
Sunday, they invited me to dinner ; and we had a loin of pork and
apple sauce, and a pudding. I had bought a spotted wooden horse
over-night as a parting gift to little Wilkins Micawber — that was the
boy — and a doll for httle Emma. I had also bestowed a shilling on
the Orfling, who was about to be disbanded.
We had a very pleasant day, though we were all in a tender state
about our approaching separation.
" I shall never, Master Copperfield," said Mrs. Mica\yber, " revert
to the period when Mr. Micawber was in difficulties, without thinking
of you. Your conduct has always been of the most dehcate and
obliging description. You have never been a lodger. You have
been a friend."
" My dear," said Mr. Micawber ; "Copperfield," for so he had been
accastomed to call me, of late, " has a heart to feel for the distresses of
his fellow creatures when they are behind a cloud, and a head to plan,
and a hand to in short, a general ability to dispose of such
available property as could be made away with."
I expressed my sense of this commendation, and said I was very
SOFT)' we were going to lose one another.
"My dear young friend," saii Mr. Micawber, "1 am -older than
216 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
you ; a man of some experience in life, and — and of some experience,
in short, in difficulties generally speaking'. At present, ,and until
something turns up (which I am, I may say, hourly expecting), I
have nothing to bestow but advice. Still my advice is so far worth
taking, that — in short, that I have never taken it myself, and am
the" — here Mr. Micawber, who had been beaming and smiling, all
over his head and face, up to the present moment, checked himself
and frowned — *' the miserable wretch you behold."
" My dear Micawber ! " urged his wife.
" I say," returned Mr. Micawber, quite forgetting himself, and
smiling again, "the miserable wretch you behold. My advice is,
never do to-morrow what you can to-day. Procrastination is the
thief of time. Collar him."
" My poor papa's maxim," Mrs. Micawber observed.
" My dear," said Mr. Micawber, " your papa wa^ very well in his
way, and heaven forbid that I should disparage him. Take him for
all in all, we ne'er shall — in short, make the acquaintance, probably,
of any body else possessing, at his time of life, the same legs for
gaiters, and able to read the same description of print, without
spectacles. But he applied that maxim to our marriage, my dear ;
and that was so far prematurely entered into, in consequence, that I
never recovered the expense."
Mr. Micawber looked aside, at Mrs. Micawber, and added ; " Not
that I am sorry for it. Quite the contrary, my love." After which,
he was grave for a minute or so.
" My other piece of advice, Copperfield," said Mr. Micawber, " you
know. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditm'e nineteen
ought and six, result happiness. Annual income, twenty pounds,
annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery.
The blossom is blighted, the leaf is withered, the god of day goes
down upon the dreary scene, and — and in short you are forever
floored. As I am !"
To make his example the more impressive, IMr. Micawber drank a
glass of punch with an air of great enjoyment and satisfaction, and
jvhistled the College Hornpipe.
I did not fail to assure him that I would store these precepts in
my mind, though indeed I had no need to do so, for, at the time, they
affected me visibly. Next morning I met the whole family at the
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 217
coach-office, and saw lliem with a desolate heart, take their places
outside, at the back.
" Master Copperfield," said Mi-s Micawber. " God bless you ! I
never can forget all that, you know, and I never would if 1 could."
" Copperfield," said Mr. Micawber, " farewell ! Every ha[)piness and
prosperity I If, in the progress of revolving years, I could jiersuade
myself that my blighted destiny had been a warning to you, I sliould
feel that I had not occupied another man's place in existence
altogether in vain. In case of an}i;hing turning up (of which I am
rather confident), I shall be extremely happy if it should be in my
power to improve your prospects."
I think, as Mi-s. Micawber sat at the back of the coach, with the
children, and I stood in the road looking wistfully at them, a mist
cleared Irom her eyes, and she saw what a little creature I really
was. I think so, because she beckoned me to climb up with quite a
new and motherly expression in her face, and put her arm round my
neck, and gave me just such a kiss as she might have given to her
own boy. I had barely time to get down again before the coach
started, and I could hardly see the family for the handkerchiefs they
waved. It was ojone in a minute. The Orthnc: and I stood lookincr
vacantly at each other in the middle of the road, and then shook
hands and said good bye ; she going back, I suppose, to Saint Luke's
workhouse, as I went to begin my weary day at Mui'dstone and
Grinby's.
But with no intention of passing many more weary days there.
No. I had resolved to run away. — To go, by some means or other,
down into the country, to the only relation I had in the world, and
tell my story to my aunt, Miss Betsey.
I have already observed that I don't know how this desperate idea
came into my brain. But, once there, it remained there ; and
hardened into a purpose than which I have never enteilained a more
determmed purpose in my Hfe. I am far from sure that I believed
there was anything hopeful in it, but my mind was thoroughly
made up that it must be carried into execution.
Again, and again, and a hundred times again, since the niglit
;vhen the thought had first occurred to me and banished sleep, I had
gone over that old story of my poor mother's al)()Ut my birth, which
it had been one of my great delights in the old time to hear her tell
218 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
and which I knew by heart. My aunt walked into that story, and
walked out of it, a dread and aAvful personage ; but there was one
httle trait in her behavior which I liked to dwell on, and which gave
me some faint shadow of encouragement. I could not forget how
my mother had thought that she felt her touch her pretty hair with
no ungentle hand ; and though it might have been altogether my
mother's fancy, and might have had no foundation whatever in fact,
I made a little picture, out of it, of my terrible aunt relenting
towards the girlish beauty that I recollected so well and loved so.
much, which softened the whole narrative. It is very possible that
it had been in my mind a long time, and had gradually engendered
my determination.
As I did not even know where Miss Betsey lived, I wrote a long
letter to Peggotty, and asked her, incidentally, if she remembered ;
pretending that I had heard of such a lady living at a certain place
I named at random, and had a curiosity to know if it were the same.
In the course of that letter, I told Peggotty that I had a particular
occasion for half a guinea ; and that if she could lend me that sum
until I could repay it, I should be very much obliged to her, and
would tell her afterwards what I had wanted it for.
Peggotty's answer soon arrived, and was, as usual, full of
affectionate devotion. She enclosed the half guinea (I was afraid
she must have had a world of trouble to get it out of Mr. Barkis's
box), and told me that Miss Betsey lived near Dover, but whether
at Dover itself, at Hythe, Sandgate, or Folkstone, she could not say.
One of our men, however, informing me on my asking him about
these places, that they were all close together, I deemed this enough
for my object, and resolved to set out at the end of that week.
Being a very honest little creature, and unwilling to disgrace the
memory I was going to leave behind me at Murdstone and Grinby's,
I considered myself bound to remain until Saturday night ; and, as
I had been paid a week's wages in advance when I first came there,
not to present myself in the counting-house at the usual hour, to
receive my stipend. For this express reason, I had borrowed the
half-guinea, that I might not be without a fund for my travelling-
expenses. Accordingly, Avhen the Saturday night came, and we
were all waiting in the warehouse to be paid, and Tipp the carman,
who always took precedence, went in fii*st to draw his money, 1
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 2 9
shook Mick Walker by the hand ; asked him when it came to his
turn to be paid, to say to Mr. Quinion that I had gone to move iny
box to Tij^p's ; and, bidding a last good night to Mealy Potatoes,
ran away.
My box was at my old lodging, over the water, and I had written
a direction for it on the back of one of our address cards that we
nailed on the casks : " Master David, to be left till called for, at the
Coach Office, Dover." This I had in my pocket ready to put on the
box, after I should have got it out of the house ; and as I went
towards my lodging, I looked about me for some one who would help
me to carry it to the booking-office.
There was a long-legged young man with a very little empty
donkey-cart, 'standing near the Obelisk, in the Blackfriars Road,
whose eye I caught as I was going by, and who addressing me as
" Sixpenn'orth of bad ha'pence," hoped " I should know him agin to
Bwear to " — in allusion, I have no doubt, to my staring at him. I
stopped to assure him that I had not done so in bad manners, but
uncertain whether he might or might not like a job.
" Wot job ? " said the long-legged young man.
" To move a box," I answered.
" Wot box ? " said the long-legged young man.
I told him mine, which was down that street there, and which T
wanted him to take to the Dover coach-office for sixpence.
" Done with you for a tanner ! " said the long-legged young man,
and directly got upon his cart, which was nothing but a large
wooden-tray on wheels, and rattled away at such a rate, that it was
as much as I could do to keep pace with the donkey.
There was a defiant manner about this young man, and particu-
larly about the way in which he chewed straw as he spoke to me,
that I did not much like ; as the bargain was made, however, I took
him up-stairs to the room I was leaving, and we brought the box
down, and put it on his cart. Now, I was unwilling to put the
direction-card on there, lest any of my landlord's family should
fathom what I was doing, and detain me ; so I said to the young
man that I would be glad if he would stop for a minute, when he
came to the dead-wall of the King's Bench prison. The words were
no sooner out of my mouth, than he rattled away as if he, my box,
the cart, and the donkey, were all equally mad ; and I was quite out
220 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
of breatli with running and calling after him, when I caught him at
the place appointed.
Being much flushed and excited, I tumbled my half-guinea out
of my pocket in pulling the card out. I put it in my mouth for
safety, and though my hands trembled a good deal, had just tied the
iard on very much to my satisfaction, when I felt myself violently
chucked under the chin by the long-legged young man, and saw my
half guinea fly out of my mouth into his hand.
" Wot ! " said the young man, seizing me by my jacket collar,
with a fi'ightful grin. " This is a pollis case, is it ? You're a going
to bolt, are you ? Come to the polhs, you young warmin, come to
the pollis ! ''
" You give me my money back, if you please," said I, very much
frightened ; " and leave me alone."
" Come to the polhs ! " said the young man. " You shall prove
it yourn to the pollis."
" Give me my box and money, will you," I cried, bursting into
tears.
The young man still rephed : " Come to the poUis ! " and was
dragging me against the donkey in a \dolent manner, as if there
were any affinity between that animal and a magistrate, when he
changed his mind, jumped into the cart, sat upon my box, and,
exclaiming that he would drive to the pollis straight, rattled away
harder than ever.
I ran after him as fast as I could, but I had no breath to call out
with, and should not have dared to call out, now, if 1 had. I
narrowly escaped being run over, tw^enty times at least, in half a
mile. Now I lost him, now I saw him, now I lost him, now I was
t!ut at with a whip, now shouted at, now down in the mud, pow up
again, now running into somebody's arms, now running headlong- at a
post. At length, confused by fright and heat, and doubting whether
half London might not by this time be turned out for my apprehen-
sion, I left the young man to go where he w^ould with my box and
money ; and, panting and crying, but never stopping, faced about
for Greenwich, which I had understood was on the Dover Road :
taking very little more out of the world, towards the retreat of my
aunt. Miss Betsey, than I had brought into it, on the night when my
arrival gave her so much umbrage.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION.
For anything I know, I may have had some wild idea of running
all the way to Dover, when I gave up the pursuit of the young man
with the donkey cart, and started for Greenwich. My scattered
senses were soon collected as to that point, if I had ; for I came to a
stop in the Kent Road, at a terrace with a piece of water before it,
and a great foohsh image in the middle, blowing a dry shell. Here
I sat down on a door-step, quite spent and exhausted ^vith the efforts
I had already made, and with hardly breath enough to ciy for the
loss of my box and half-guinea.
It was by this time dark ; I heard the clocks strike ten, as I sat
resting. But it was a summer night, fortunately, and fine weather.
When I had recovered aiy breath, and had got rid of a stifling sen-
sation in my throat, I rose up and went on. In the midst of my
distress, I had no notion of going back. I doubt if I should have
had any, though there had been a Swiss snow-drift in the Kent
Road.
But my standing possessed of only three-halfpence in the world
(and I am sure I wonder how they came to be left in my pocket on
a Saturday night !) troubled me none the less because I went on. I
began to picture to myself, as a scrap of newspaper intelligence, my
being found dead in a day or two, under some hedge ; and 1 trudged
on miserably, though as fast as I could, until I happened to pass a
little shop, where it was written up that ladies' and gentlemen's
wardrobes were bought, and that the best price was given for rags,
bones, and kitchen-stuff. The ma.ster of tliis shop wits sitting at the
door in his shirt sleeves, smoking ; and as there were a great many
coats and pairs of trowsers dangling from the low ceiling, and only
two feeble candles burning inside to show what they were, I fancied
221
222 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
that he looked like a man of a revengeful disposition, who had hung
all his enemies, and was enjoying himself.
My late experiences with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber suggested to me
that here might be the means of keeping off the wolf for a little
while. I went up the next bye-street, took off my waistcoat, rolled
it neatly under my arm, and came back to the shop-door. " If you
please, sir," I said, " I am to sell this for a fair price."
Mr. Dolloby — Dolloby was the name over the shop-door, at least —
took the waistcoat, stood his pipe on its head against the door-post
went into the shop, followed by me, snuffed the two candles with his
fingers, spread the waistcoat on the counter, and looked at it there,
held it up against the hght, and looked at it there, and ultimately
said :
" What do you call a price, now, for this here httle weskit ?"
" Oh ! you know best, sir," I returned, modestly.
" I can't be buyer and seller, too," said Mr. Dolloby. " Put a
price on this here little weskit."
" Would eighteenpence be" — I hinted, after some hesitation.
Mr. Dolloby rolled it up again, and gave it me back. " I should
rob my family," he said, '• if I was to offer ninepence for it."
This was a disagreeable way of putting the business ; because it
imposed upon me, a perfect stranger, the unpleasantness of asking
Mr. Dolloby to rob his family on my account. ^ly circumstances
being so very pressing, however, I said I would take ninepence for
it, if he pleased. Mr. Dolloby, not without some grumbhng, gave
ninepence. I wished him good night, and walked out of the shop,
the richer by that sum, and the poorer by a waistcoat. But when
I buttoned my jacket, that was not much.
Indeed, I foresaw pretty clearly that my jacket would go next,
and that I should have to make the best of my way to Dover in a
shirt and a pair of trowsers, and might deem myself lucky if I got
there even in that trim. But my mind did not run so much on
this as might be supposed. Beyond a general impression of the
distance before me, and of the young man ^vith the donkey-cart
having used me cruelly, I think I had no very urgent sense of my
difficulties when I once again set off with my ninepence in my
pocket.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 223
A plan had occurred to me for passing the night, which I waa
going to carry into execution. This was, to lie behind the wall at
the back of my old school, in a corner where there used to be a
haystack. I imagined it would be a kind of company to have the
boys, and the bed-room where I used to tell the stories, so near me :
although the boys would know nothing of my being there, and the
bed-room would 3'ield me no shelter.
I had had a hard day's work, and was pretty well jaded when I
came climbing out, at last, upon the level of Blackheath. It cost
me some trouble to find out Salem House ; but I found it, and I
found a haystack in the corner, and I lay down by it ; having first
walked round the wall, and looked up at the windows, and seen that
all was dark and silent within. Never shall I forget the lonely sen-
sation of first lying down, without a roof above my head !
Sleep came upon me as it came on many other outcasts, against
whom house-doors were locked, and house-dogs barked, that night
— and I dreamed of lying on my old school bed, talking to the boys
in my room ; and found myself sitting upiight, Avith Steerforth's
name upon my lips, looking wildly at the stars that were ghstening
and ghmmering above me. When I remembered where I was at
that untimely hour, a feeling stole upon me that made me get up,
afraid of I don't know what, and walk about. But the fainter glim-
mering of the stars, and the pale light in the sky where the day was
coming, reassured me : and my eyes being very heavy, I lay down
again, and slept — though with a knowledge in my sleep that it was
cold — until the warm beams of the sun, and the ringing of tJie get-
ting-up bell at Salem House, awoke me. If I could have hoped that
Steerforth was there, I would have lurked about until he came out
alone ; but I knew he must have left long since. Traddles still re-
mained, perhaps, but it was very doubtful ; and I had not sufficient
confidence in his discretion or good luck, however strong my reli-
ance was on his good-nature, to wish to trust him with my situation.
So I crept away from the wall as Mr. Creakle's boys were getting
up, and struck into the long dusty track which I had first known to
be the Dover road when I was one of them, and when I little ex-
pected that any eyes would ever see me the wayfarer I was now,
upon it.
224 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Wliat a different Sunday morning from, the old Sunday morning
at Yarmouth ! In due time I heard the church-bells ringing, as 1
plodded on ; and I met people who were going to church ; and I
passed a church or two where the congregation were inside, and the
sound of singing came out into the sun-shine, while the beadle sat
and cooled himself in the shade of the porch, or stood beneath the
yew-tree, "with his hand to his forehead, glowering at me going by.
But the peace and rest of the old Sunday morning were on every-
thing, except me. That was the difference. I felt quite wicked in
my dirt and dust, and with my tangled hair. But for the quiet
pictm-e I had conjured up, of my mother in her youth and beauty,
weeping by the fire, and my aunt relenting to her, I hardly think
I should have had courage to go on until next day. But it always
went before me, and I followed.
I got, that Sunday, through three-and-twenty miles on the straight
road, though not very easily, for I was new to that kind of toil. I
see myself, as evening closes in, coming over the bridge at Rochester,
footsore and tired, and eating bread that I had bought for supper.
One or two httle houses, with the notice, " Lodgings for Travellers,"
hanging out, had tempted me ; but I was afi-aid of spending the
few pence I had, and was even more afraid of the ncious looks of
the trampers I had met or overtaken. I sought no shelter, there-
fore, but the sky ; and toihng into Chatham, — which, in that night's
aspect, is a mere di'eam of chalk, and drawbridges, and mastless
ships in a muddy river, roofed hke Noah's arks, — crept, at last,
upon a sort of grass-grown battery overhanging a lane, where a
sentry was walking to and fro. Here I lay down, near a cannon ;
and, happy in the society of the sentry's footsteps, though he knew
no more of my being above him than the boys at Salem House
had known of my lying by the wall, slept soundly untU morn-
Very stiff and sore of foot I was in the morning, and quite dazed
by the beating of drums and marching of troops, which seemed to
hem me in on every side when I went down towards the long nar-
row street. Feeling that I could go but a very little way that day,
if I were to reserve any strength for getting to my joumey*s end, I
resolved to make the sale of my jacket its principal ousinesa. Ac-
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 225
cordingl J, I took the jacket oflf, that I might learn to do without it ;
and carrying it un'ler my arm, began a tour of inspection of the
various slop-shops.
It was a likely place to sell a jacket in ; for the dealers in second-
hand clothes were numerous, and were, generally speaking, on the
look-out for customei^s at their sho]>doors. But as most of them
had, hanging up among their stock, an officer's coat or two, epauletts
and all, I was rendered timid by the costly nature of their dealings,
and walked about for a long time without oftering my merchandize
to any one.
This modesty of mine directed my attention to the marine-store
shops, and such shops as Mr. Dolloby's, in preference to the regular
dealers. At last I found one that I thought looked promising, at
the corner of a dirty lane, ending in an inclosure full of stinging
nettles, against the paling-s of which some second-hand sailors*
clothes, that seemed to have overflowed the shop, were fluttering
among some cots, and rusty guns, and oilskin hats, and certain trays
full of so many old rusty keys of so many sizes that they seemed
various enough to open all the doors in the woi'ld.
Into this shop, which was low and small, and which was darkened
rather than hghted by a little window, overhung with clothes, and
was descended into by some steps, I went with a palpitating heart ;
which was not relieved when an ugly old man, with the lower part
of his face all covered with a stubbly grey beard, rushed out of a
dirty den behind it, and seized me by the hair of my head. He
was a dreadful old man to look at, in a filthy flannel waistcoat, and
smelling terribly of rum. His bedstead, covered with a tumbled
and ragged piece of patchwork, was in the den he had come from,
where another little window showed a prospect of more stinging
nettles, and a lame donkey.
I " Oh, what do you want ?" grinned this old man, in a fierce,
monotonous whine. " Oh, my eyes and limbs, what do you want ?
Oh, my lungs and liver, what do you want ? Oh, goroo, goroo !"
I was so much dismayed by these words, and particularly by the
repetition of the last unknown one, which was a kind of rattle in
his throat, that I could make no answer; hereupon the old man,
still hokUng me by the hair, repeated :
14
226 IXAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Oh, what do you want ? Oh, my eyes and Hmbs, what do you
want ? Oh, my lungs and liver, what do you want ! Oh, goroo !"
— which he screamed out of himself, with an energy that made his
eyes start in his head.
" I wanted to know," I said, trembhng, " if you would buy a
jacket."
" Oh, let's see the jacket !" cried the old man. " Oh, my heart
on fii'e, show the jacket to us ! Oh, my eyes and limbs, bring the
jacket out ! "
With that he took his trembhng hands, which were hke the claws
of a great bird, out of my hair ; and put on a pair of spectacles,
not at all ornamental to his inflamed eyes.
" Oh, how much for the jacket ? " cried the old man, after ex-
amining it. " Oh — goroo ! — how much for the jacket ? "
" Half-a-crown," I answered, recovering myself.
" Oh, my lungs and liver," cried the old man, " no ! Oh, my
eyes, no ! Oh, my hmbs, no ! Eighteenpence. Goroo ! "
Every time he uttered this ejaculation, his eyes seemed to be in
danger of starting out ; and every sentence he spoke, he delivered
in a sort of tune, always exactly the same, and more like a gust of
wind, which begins low, mounts up high, and falls again, than any
othei' comparison I can find for it.
" Well," said I, glad to have closed the bargain, " I'll take
eighteenpence."
" Oh, my hver ! " cried the old man, throwing the jacket on a
shelf " Get out of the shop ! Oh, my lungs, get out of the shop !
Oh, my eyes and hmbs — goroo ! — don't ask for money ; make it an
exchange."
I never was so frightened in my hfe, before or since ; but I told
him humbly that I wanted money, and that nothing else was of any
use to me, but that I would wait for it, as he desired, outside, and
had no wish to hurry him. So I went outside, and sat down in the
shade in a corner. And I sat there so many hours, that the shade
became sunlight, and the sunhght became shade again, and still I
sat there waiting foi the money.
There never was such another drunken madman in that line of
business, I hope. That he was well known in the neighbourhood,
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 227
and enjoyed the reputation of having sold himself to the devil, I
soon understood fi'om the visits he received fi'om the boys, who
continually came skirmishing about the shop, shouting that legend,
and calling to him to bring out his gold. " You ain't poor, you
know, Charley, as you pretend. Bring out your gold. Bring out
some of the gold you sold yourself to the devil for. Come ! It's
in the lining of the mattress, Charley. Rip it open and let's have
some ! " This, and many offers to lend him a knife for the pirpose,
exasperated him to such a degree, that the whole day was a succes-
sion of rushes on his part, and flights on the part of the boys.
Sometimes in his rage he would take me for one of them, and come
at me, mouthing as if he were going to tear me in pieces ; then,
remembering me, just in time, would dive into the shop, and he
upon his bed, as I thought from the sound of his voice, yelling in a
frantic way, to his own windy tune, the Death of Nelson ; with' an
Oh ! before every line, and innumerable Goroos interspersed. As
if this were not bad enough for me, the boys, connecting me with
the establishment, on account of the patience and perseverance
with which I sat outside, half-dressed, pelted me, and used me very
ill all day.
He made many attempts to induce me to consent to an exchange ;
at one time coming out with a fishing-rod, at another with a fiddle,
at another with a cocked hat, at another with a flute. But I
resisted all these overtures, and sat there in desperation ; each time
asking him, with tears in my eyes, for my money or my jacket. At
last he began to pay me in halfpence at a time ; and was full two
hours getting by easy stages to a shilling.
" Oh, my eyes and limbs ! " he then ci'ied, peeping hideously out
of the shop, after a long pause, " will you go for twopence more ?"
« I can't," I said ; " I shall be starved."
" Oh, my lungs and hver, will you go for threepence ? "
" I would go for nothing, if I could," I said, " but I want thft
money badly."
" Oh, go — roo ! " (it is really impossible to express how he
twisted this ejaculation out of himself, as he peeped round the door-
post at me, showing nothing but his crafty old head) ; " will you go
for fourpence ? "
228 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
I was so faint and weary that I closed with this offer; and taking
the money out of his claw, not without trembhng, went away more
hunofry and thirsty than I had ever been, a httle before sunset. But
at an expense of threepence I soon refreshed myself completely ;
and, being in better spirits then, limped seven miles upon my
road.
My bed at night was under another haystack, where I rested
comfortably, after having washed my- blistered feet in a stream, and
di'essed them as well as I was able, with some cool leaves. When
I took the road again next morning, I found that it lay through a
succession of hop-grounds and orchards. It was sufficiently late in
the year for the orchards to be ruddy with ripe apples ; and in a few
places the hop-pickers were already at work. I thought it all ex-
tremely beautiful, and made up my mind to sleep among the hops
that night : imagining some cheerful companionship in the long
perspectives of poles, with the graceful leaves twining round them.
The trampers were worse than ever that day, and mspired me
with a dread that is yet quite fresh in my mind. Some of them
were most ferocious-looking ruffians, who stared at me as I went by ;
and stopped, perhaps, and called after me to come back and speak
to them ; and when I took to my heels, stoned me. I recollect one
young fellow — a tinker, I suppose, from his wallet and brazier — who
had a woman with him, and who faced about and stared at me
thus ; and then roared at me in such a tremendous voice to come
back, that I halted and looked round.
" Come here, when you 're called," said the tinker, " or I '11 rip
your young body open."
I thought it best to go back. As I drew nearer to them, trying
to propitiate the tinker by my looks, I observed that the woman had
a black eye.
" Where are you going ? " said the tinker, griping the bosom of
my shirt with his blackened hand.
" I am going to Dover," I said.
" Where do you come from ? " asked the tinker, giving his hand
another turn in my shirt, to hold me more securely.
" I come from London," I said.
" What lay are you upon ? " asked the tinker. " Are you a
prig?"
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 229
**N"— no,"Isaid.
" Ain't you, by G — ? If you make a brag of your honesty to
me," said the tinker, " I '11 knock your brains out."
With his disengaged hand he made a menace of striking me, and
then looked at me from head to foot.
" Have you got the price of a pint of beer about you ? " said the
tinker. " It' you have, out \vith it, afore I take it aM'ay ! "
I should certainly have produced it, but that I met the woman's
look, and saw her very slightly shake her head, and form " No ! "
with her hps.
" I am very poor," I said, attempting to smile, " and have got no
money."
" Why, what do you mean ? " said the tinker, looking so sternly
at me, that I almost feared he saw the money in my pocket.
" Sir ! " I stammered.
" What do you mean," said the tinker, " by wearing my brother's
silk handkercher ? Give it over here ! " And he had mine off my
neck in a moment, and tossed it to the woman.
The woman burst into a fit of laugliter, as if she thought this a
joke^ and tossing it back to me, nodded once, as slightly as before,
and made the word " Go ! " with her hps. Before I could obey,
however, the tinker seized the handkerchief out of my hand ^^•ith a
roughness that threw me away like a feather, and putting it loosely
round his owti neck, turned upon the woman with an oath, and
knocked her down. I never shall forget seeing her fall backward on
the hard road, and he there with her bonnet tumbled off, and her
hair all wliitened in the dust ; nor, when I looked back from a dis-
tance, seeing her sitting on the pathway, which was a bank by the
roadside, wiping the blood from her face with a corner of her shawl,
while he went on ahead.
This adventure frightened me so, that, afterwards, when I saw
any of these people coming, I turned back until I could find a
hiding-place, where I remained until they had gone out of sight;
which happened so oftert, that I was very seriously delayed. But
under this difficulty, as under all the other difficulties of my journey,
I seemed to be sustained and led on by my fanciful jticture of my
mother in her youth, before I came into the world. It always kep<
230 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
ine company. It was there, among the hops, when I lay down ta
sleep ; it was with me on my w^aking in the morning ; it went be
fore me all day. I have associated it, ever since, with the sunny
street of Canterbury, dozing as it were in the hot light ; and with
the sight of its old houses and gateways, and the stately, grey
Cathedral, with the rooks sailing round the towers. When I came,
at last, upon the bare, wide downs near Dover, it relieved the soli-
tary aspect of the scene with hope ; and not until I reached that
first great aim of my journey, and actually set foot in the town
itself, on the sixth day of my flight, did it desert me. But then,
strange to say, when I stood with my ragged shoes, and my dusty,
sunburnt, half-clothed figure, in the place so long desired, it seemed
to vanish hke a dream, and to leave me helpless and dispirited.
I inquired about my aunt among the boatmen fii'st, and received
various answers. One said she hved in the South Foreland Light,
and had singed her whiskers by doing so ; another, that she was
made fast to the gi-eat buoy outside the harbor, and could only be
visited at half-tide ; a third, that she was locked up in Maidstone
Jail for child-steaHng ; a fourth, that she was seen to mount a broom
in the last high ^^ind, and make direct for Calais. The fly-drivers,
among whom I inquired next, were equally jocose and equally disre-
epectful ; and the shopkeepere, not liking my appearance, generally
rephed, without hearing what I had to say, that they had got no-
thing for me. I felt more miserable and destitute than I had done
at any period of my running away. My money was all gone, I had
nothing left to dispose of ; I was hungry, thirsty, and worn out ;
and seemed as distant from my end as if I had remained in London.
The morning had worn away in these inquiries, and I was sitting
on the step of an empty shop at a street corner, near the market-
place, dehberating upon wandering towards those other places w^hich
had been mentioned, when a fly-driver, coming by with his carriage,
dropi^ed a horsecloth. Something good-natured in the man's face,
as I handed it up, encouraged me to ask him if he could tell
me where Miss Trotwood Uved ; though I had asked the question
so often, that it almost died upon my Ups.
" Trotwood," said he. " Let me see. I know the name, too.
Old lady?"
DAVID COrPERFIELD. 231
**Yes,"Isaid, "rather."
" Pretty stiff in the back ?" said he, making himself upright.
" Yes," I said. " I should think it very likely."
" Carries a bag?" said he — " bag with a good deal of room in it
— is gruffish, and comes down u})on you, sharp ? "
My heart sunk wthin me as I acknowledged the undoubted ac-
curacy of this description.
" Why then, I tell you what," said he. " If you go up there,"
pointing with his whip towards the heights, " and keep right
on till you come to some houses facing the sea, I think you'll hear
of her. My opinion is she won't stand anything, so here's a penny
for you."
I accepted the gift thankfully, and bought a loaf with it. Dis-
patching this refreshment by the way, I went in the direction my
friend had indicated, and walked on a good distance without coming
to the houses he had mentioned. At length I saw some before me ;
and approaching them, went into a little shop (it w^as what we used
to call a general shop, at home), and in<|uired if they could have the
goodness to toll me where Miss Trotwood lived. I addressed myself
to a man behind the counter, who was weighing some rice for a
young woman ; but the latter taking the inquiry to herself, turned
round quickly.
" My mistress ?" she said. " What do you want with her, boy ? "
" I want," I replied, " to speak to her, if you please."
" To beg of her, you mean," retorted the damsel.
" No " I said, " indeed." But suddenly remembering that in
truth I came for no other purpose, I held my peace in confusion, and
felt my face bum.
My aunt's handmaid, as I supposed she was from what she had
said, put her rice in a little basket and walked out of the shop ; tell-
ing me that I could fellow her, if I wanted to know where Miss
Trotwood hved. I needed no second permission ; though I was by
this time in such a state of consternation and agitation, that my legs
shook under me. I followed the young woman, and we soon came
to a very neat httle cottage with cheerful bow-windows : in ft >nt of
it, a small square gravelled court or garden full of flowers, carefully
tended, and smelhng deliciously.
232 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" This is Miss Trotwood's," said the young woman. " Now yov
know ; and thaf s all I have got to say." With which words sha
hurried into the house, as if to shake off the responsibility of my
appearance ; and left me standing at the garden-gate, looking dis-
consolately over the top of it towards the parlor window, where a
mushn curtain partly undrawn in the middle, a large round green
screen or fan fastened on to the window-sill, a small table, and a
great chair, suggested to me that my aunt might be at that moment
seated in awful state.
My shoes were by this time in a woeful condition. The soles had
shed themselves bit by bit, and the upper leathers had broken and
burst until the very shape and form of shoes had departed from
them. My hat (which had served me for a night-cap, too) was so
ci-ushed and bent, that no old battered handle-less saucepan on a
dunghill need have been ashamed to vie with it. My shirt and
trowsers, stained with heat, dew, grass, and the Kentish soil on which
I had slept — and torn besides — might have frightened the birds
fi'om my aunt's garden, as I stood at the gate. My hair had known
no comb or brush since I left London. My face, neck, and hands,
from unaccustomed exposure to the air and sun, were burnt to a
beny brown. From head to foot I was powdered almost as white
with chalk and dust, as if I had come out of a lime-kiln. In this
plight, and with a strong consciousness of it, I waited to introduce
myself to, and make my first impression on, my formidable aimt.
The unbroken stillness of the parlor window leading me to infer,
after a- while, that she was not there, I lifted up my eyes to the win-
dow above it, where I saw a florid, pleasant-looking gentleman, with
a grey head, who shut up one eye in a grotesque manner, nodded
his head at me several times, shook it at me as often, laughed, and
went away.
I had been discomposed enough before ; but I was so much the
more discomposed by this unexpected behaviour, that I was on the
point of slinking off, to think how I had best proceed, when there
came out of the house a lady with a handkerchief tied over her cap,
and a pair of gardening gloves on her hands, wearing a gardening
pocket uke a tollman's apron, and arrying a great knife. I knew
lier immediately to be Miss Betsey, for she '^''"^e s+i'iking out of the
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 233
Louse exactly as my poor mother had so often described her stalking
up our garden at Bluiiderstone Rookery. •
" Go away !" said Miss Betsey, shaking her head, and making
a distant chop in the air with her knife. " Go along ! No buys
here !"
I watched her, with my heart at my lips, as she marched to a
corner of her garden, and stooped to dig up some little root there.
Then, without a scrap of courage, but with a great deal of despera-
tion, I went softly in and stood beside her, touching her with my
finger.
" If you please, ma'am," I began.
She started, and looked up.
" If you please, aunt."
" Eh ?" exclaimed Miss Betsey, in a tone of amazement I have
never heard approached.
" If you please, aunt, I am your nephew."
" Oh, Lord I" said my aunt. And sat flat down in the garden-
path.
" I am David Coppei-field, of Blunderstone, in Suffolk — where you
came, on the night when I was born, and saw my dear mama. I
have been very unhappy since she died. I have been slighted, and
taught nothing, and thrown upon myself, and put to work not lit for
me. It made me run away to you. I was robbed at first setting
out, and have walked all the way, and have never slept in a bed
since I began the journey." Here my self-support gave way all at
once ; and with a movement of my hands, intended to show her my
ragged state, and call it to witness that I had suffered something, I
broke into a passion of crying, which I suppose had been pent up
within me all the week.
My aunt, with every sort of expression but wonder discharged
from her countenance, sat on the gravel, staring at me, until I began
to cry ; when she got up in a great hurry, collared me, and took mo
into the parlor. ELer first proceeding there was to unlock a tall
press, bring out several bottles, and pour some of the contents of
each into my mouth. I think they must have been taken out at
random, for I am sure I tasted aniseed water, anchov)'^ sauce, and
Balad dressing. When she had administered these restoratives, as I
234 DAVID COrrERFIELD.
was still quite hysterical, and unable to control my sobs, she put me
on the sofa, with a shawl under my head, and the handkerchief fi-om
her own head under my feet, lest I should sully the cover ; and then,
sitting herself down behind the green fan or screen I have already
mentioned, so that I could not see her face, ejaculated at intervals,
" Mercy on us !" letting those exclamations off like minute guns.
After a time she rang the bell. " Janet," said my aunt, when her
servant came in. " Go up stairs, give my comphments to Mr. Dick,
and say I wish to speak to him."
Janet looked a httle surprised to see me lying stiffly on the sofa
(I was afraid to move lest it should be displeasing to my aunt), but
went on her errand. My aunt, with her hands behind her, walked
up and do^Ti the room, until the gentleman who had squinted at me
from the upper window came in laughing.
. " Mr. Dick," said my aunt, " don't be a fool, because nobody can
be more discreet than you can, when you choose. We all know
that. So don't be a fool, whatever you are."
The gentleman was serious immediately, and looked at me, T
thought, as if he would entreat me to say nothing about the
window.
" Mr. Dick," said my aunt, " you have heard me mention Da\id
CopperjSeld ? Now don't pretend not to have a memory, because
you and I know better."
" Da\id Copperfield ?" said Mr. Dick, who did not appear to me
to remember much about it. " Da\id Copperfeld ! O yes, to be
sure. David, certainly."
" Well," said my aunt, " this is his boy — ^his son. He would be
as hke his father as it's possible to be, if he was not so like his
mother, too."
" His son ?" said Mr. Dick. " Da%dd's son ? Indeed !"
" Yes," pursued my aunt, " and he has done a pretty piece of
business. He has run away. Ah ! His sister, Betsey Trotwood,
never would have run away." My aunt shook her head firmly,
confident in the character and behaviour of the girl who never was
born.
" Oh I you think she wouldn't have run away ?" said Mr. D.ck.
" Bless and save the man," exclaimed my aunt, sharply, '• how he
Vvivi^^r^/
I make Mj-self known to my Aunt
Of
cs \
mm^^'^^
aUHO^S
DAVID COrPERFIELD. 235
talks! Don't I know she wouldn't ? She would have lived with
her god-mother, and we should have been devoted to one another.
Where, in the name of wonder, should his sister, Betsey Trotwood,
have run from, or to ?"
" Nowhere," said Mr. Dick.
" AVell then," returned my aunt, softened by the reply, " how can
/ou pretend to be wool-gathering, Dick, whefi you are as sharp as a
surgeon's lancet ? Now, here you see young David Copperfield, and
the question I put to you is, what shall I do with him ?"
"What shall you do with him?" said Mr. Dick, feebly, scratching
his head. " Oh ! do with him ?"
" Yes," said my aunt, with a grave look and her forefinger held
up. " Come ! I w^ant some very sound addce."
" Why, if I was you," said Mr. Dick, considering, and looking
vacantly at me, " I should — " Hie contemplation of me seemed to
inspire him vsith a sudden idea, and he added, briskly, " I should
wash him !"
" J unet," said my aunt, turning round with a quiet triumph, which
I did not then undei'stand, " Mr. Dick sets us all right. Heat the
bath !"
Although I was deeply interested in this dialogue, I could not
help observing my aunt, Mr. Dick, and Janet, while it was in pro-
gress, and completing a survey I had already been engaged in
makinij of the room.
My aunt was a tall, hard-foatured lady, but by no means ill-
looking. There was an inflexibility in her face, in her voice, in her
gait and carriage, amply sufficient to account for the effect she had
made upon a gentle creature like my mother ; but her features were
rather handsome than otherwise, though unbending and austere. I
particularly noticed that she had a very quick, bright, eye. Her
hair, which was grey, was aiTanged in two plain divisions, under
what I believe would be called a mob-cap : I mean a cap, much
more common then than now, with side-pieces fastening under the
chin. Iler dress was of a lavender color, and perfectly neat ; but
scantily made, as if she desired to be as little encumbered as possible.
I remember that I thoffght it, in form, more like a riding-habit with
the superfluous skirt cut off, than anything else. She wore at her
236 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Bide a gentleman's gold watcli, if I might judge from its size and
make, with an appropriate chain and seals ; she had some linen at
her throat not unlike a shu-t-collar, and things at her wrists hke little
shirt-wristbands.
Mr. Dick, as I have already said, was grey-headed, and florid : I
should have said all about him, in saying so, had not his herd been
curiously bowed — not by age ; it reminded me of one of Mr. Creakle's
boys' heads after a beating — and his grey eyes prominent and large,
with a strange kind of watery brightness in them that made me, in
combination with his vacant manner, his submission to my aunt, and
his childish dehght when she praised him, suspect him of being a lit-
tle mad ; though, if he were mad, how he came to be there puzzled
me extremely. He was dressed like any other ordinary gentleman,
in a loose grey morning coat and waistcoat, and white trowsers ; and
had his watch in his fob, and his money in his pockets ; which he
rattled as if he were very proud of it.
Janet was a pretty blooming girl, of about nineteen or twenty, and
a perfect picture of neatness. Though I made no further observation
of her at the moment, I may mention here what I did not discover
until afterwards, namely, that she was one of a series of protegees
whom my aunt had taken into her ser^^ce expressly to educate in a
renouncement of mankind, and who had generally completed their
abjuration by marrying the baker.
The room was as neat as Janet or my aunt. As I laid down my
pen, a moment since, to think of it, the air from the sea came blow-
ing in again, mixed with the perfume of tlie flowers ; and I saw the
old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished, my aunt's invio-
lable chair and table by the round green fan in the bow-window, the
drugget-covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two canaries,
the old china, the punchbowl full of dried rose leaves, the tall press
guarding all sorts of bottles and pots, and, wonderfully out of keep-
ing with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of every-
thinor.
Janet had gone away to get the bath ready, when my aunt, to
my gi'eat alarm, became in one moment rigid with indignation, and
had hardly voice to cry out, " Janet ! Donki«6 ! "
Upon which, Janet came running up the stairs as if the house
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 237
were in flames, darted out on a little piece of green in front, and
warned off two saddle-donkeys, lady-ridden, that had presumed to set
hoof upon it ; while my aunt, rushing out of the house, seized the
bridle of a third animal laden with a bestriding child, turned him, led
him forth from those sacred precincts, and boxed the ears of the un-
lucky urchin in attendance who had dared to profane that hallowed
ground.
To this hour I don't know whether my aunt had any lawful right
of way over that patch of green ; but she had settled it in her own
mind that she had, and it was all the same to her. The one great
outrage of her life, demanding to be constantly avenged, was the
passage of a donkey over that immaculate spot. In whatever occu-
pation she was engaged, however interesting to her the conversation
in which she was taking part, a donkey turned the current of her
ideas in a moment, and she was upon him straight. Jugs of water
and watering pots were kept in secret places ready to be discharged
on the offending boys ; sticks were laid in ambush behind the door ;
salhes were made at all hours ; and incessant war prevailed. Per-
haps tliis was an agreeable excitement to the donkey -boys ; or per-
haps the more sagacious of the donkeys, understanding how the case
stood, delighted with constitutional obstinacy in coming that way. I
only know that there were three alarms before the bath was ready ;
and that on the occasion of the last and most desperate of all, I saw
my aunt engage, single-handed, with a sandy-headed lad of fifteen,
and bump his sandy head against her own gate, before he seemed to
comprehend what was the matter. These interruptions were the
more ridiculous to me, because she was giving me broth out of a
table-spoon at the time (having firmly ])ersuaded herself that I was
actually starving, and must receive nourishment at first in very small
quantities), and. while my mouth was yet open to receive the spoon,
she would put it back into the basin, cry " Janet ! Donkies ! " and go
out to the assault.
The bath was a great comfort. For I began to bo sensihJe of
acute pains in my limbs from lying out in the fields, and was now
80 tired and low that I could hardly keep myself awake for five
minutes together. Wheo I had bathed, they (I mean my aunt and
Janet) enrobed me in a shirt and pair of trowsers belonging to Mr
238 DAVID COPPEIIFIELD.
Dick, and tied me up in two or three great shawls. What sort of a
bundle I looked like, I don't know, but I felt a very hot one. Feel-
ing also very faint and drowsy, I soon lay down on the sofa again
and fell asleep.
It might have been a dream, originating in the fancy which had
occupied my mind so long, but I awoke with the impression that
my aunt had come and bent over me, and had put my hair away
from my face, and laid my head more comfortably, and had then
stood looking at me. The words, " Pretty fellow," or, " Poor fellow,"
seemed to be in ray ears, too ; but certainly there was nothing else,
v/hen I awoke, to lead me to beheve that they had been uttered by
my aunt, who sat in the bow-window gazing at the sea from behind
the green fan, which was mounted on a kind of swivel, and turned
any way.
We dined soon after I awoke, off a roast fowl and a pudding ; I sit-
ting at table, not unhke a trussed bird myself, and moving my arms
with considerable difficulty. But as my aunt had swathed me up,
I made no complaint of being inconvenienced. All this time, I
was deeply anxious to know what she was going to do with me ;
but she took her dinner in profound silence, except when she occa-
sionally fixed her eyes on me sitting opposite, and said, "Mercy
upon us !" which did not by any means relieve my anxiety.
The cloth being drawn, and some sherry put upon the table, (of
which I had a glass,) my aunt sent up for Mr. Dick again, who
joined us, and looked as wise as he could when she requested him
to attend to my story, which she elicited from me, gradually, by a
course of questions. During my recital, she kept her eyes on Mr.
Dick, who I thought would have gone to sleep but for that, and
who, whensoever he lapsed into a smile, was checked by a frown
from my aunt.
" AVhatever possessed that poor imfortunate Baby, that she must
go and be married again," said my aunt, when I had finished, " /
can't conceive."
" Perhaps she fell in love with her second husband," Mr. Dick
suggested.
" Fell in love !" repeated my aunt. " What do you mean ? What
business had she to do it ?"
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 239
" Perhaps," Mr. Dick simpered, after thinking a little, " she did it
for pleasure."
" Pleasure, indeed," replied my aunt. " A mighty pleasure for
the poor baby to fix her simple faith upon any dog of a fellow, cer-
tain to ill-use her in some way or other. What did she propose to
herself, I should hke to know ! She had had one husband. She
had seen DaWd Copperfield out of the world, who was always run-
ning after wax dolls from his cradle. She had got a baby — oh,
tliere were a pair of babies when she gave birth to this child sitting
here, that Friday night ! — and what more did she want ?"
Mr. Dick secretly shook his head at me, as if he thought there
was no getting over this.
" She couldn't even have a baby hke anybody else," said my aunt.
" Where was this child's sister, Betsey Trotwood. Not forthcoming.
Don't tell me ! "
Mr. Dick seemed quite frightened.
" That little man of a doctor, with his head on one side," said my
aunt, " Jellips, or whatever his name was, what was he about ? All
he could do, was to say to me, hke a robin-redbreast — as he is — 'It's
a boy.' A boy ! Yah, the imbecility of the whole set of 'em."
The heartiness of the ejaculation startled Mr. Dick exceedingly ;
and me, too, if I am to tell the truth.
" And then, as if this was not enough, and she had not stood
sufficiently in the hght of this child's sister, Betsey Trotwood," said
my aunt, " she marries a second time — goes and marries a Murderer
— or a man with a name hke it — and stands in this child's light !
And the natural consequence is, as anybody but a baby might have
foreseen, that he prowls and wanders. He's as like Cain before he
was grown up, as he can be."
Mr. Dick looked hard at me, as if to identify me in this charactei
" And then there's that woman with the Pagan name," said my
aunt, " that Peggotty, site goes and gets married next. Because she
has not seen enough of the evil attending such things, she goes and
gets married next, as the child relates. I only hope," said my aunt,
shaking her head, " that her husband is one of those Poker hus-
bands, who abound in the newspapers, and ^\ill beat her well with
240 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
I could not bear to hear my old nurse so decried, and made the
subject of such a wish. I told my aunt that indeed she was mis-
taken. That Peggotty was the best, the truest, the most faithful,
most devoted, and most self-denying friend and servant in the world ;
who had ever loved me dearly, who had ever loved my mother
dearly ; who had held my mother's dying head upon her arm, on
whose face my mother had imprinted her last grateful kiss. And
my remembrance of them both, choking me, I broke down as I was
trying to say that her home was my home, and that all she had was
mine, and that I would have gone to her for shelter, but for her
humble station, which made me fear that I might bring some trouble
on her — I broke down, I say, as I was trying to say so, and laid my
face in my hands upon the table.
" Well, well !" said my aunt, " the child is right to stand by those who
have stood by him — Janet ! Donkies !"
I thoroughly beUeve that but for those unfortunate donkies, we should
have come to a good understanding; for my aunt had laid her
hand on my shoulder, and the impulse was upon me, thus em-
boldened, to embrace her and beseech her protection. But the
interruption, and the disorder she was thrown into by the struggle
outside, put an end to all softer ideas for the present ; and kept my
aunt indignantly declaiming to Mr. Dick about her determination to
appeal for redress to the laws of her country, and to bring actions
for trespass against the whole donkey proprietorship of Dover, until
tea-time.
After tea, we sat at the window — on the look-out, as I imagined,
from my aunt's sharp expression of face, for more in^^aders — until
dusk, when Janet set candles, and a backgammon-board, on the
table, and pulled down the blinds.
" Now, Mr. Dick," said my aunt, with her grave look, and her
fore-finger up as before, " I am going to ask you another question.
Look at this child."
" Da\ad's son ?" said Mr. Dick, with an attentive, puzzled face.
" Exactly so," returned my aunt. " What would you do with
hi in, now ?"
" Do with David's son ?" said Mr. Dick.
" Ay," rephed my aunt, " with David's son."
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 241
" Oh !" said Mr. Dick. " Yes. Do with— I should put him to
bed."
"Janet!" cried my aunt with the same complacent triumph that
I had remarked before. " Mr. Dick sets us all right. If the bed is
ready, we'll take him up to it."
Janet reporting it to be quite ready, I was taken up to it ; kindly
but in some sort hke a prisoner ; my aunt going in front and Janet
bnnging up the rear. The only circumstance which gave me any
new hope, was my aunt's stopping on the stairs to inquire about a
smell of fire that was prevalent there ; and Janet's replying that she
had been making tinder down in the kitchen, of my old shirt. But
there were no other clothes in my room than the old heap of things
I wore ; and when I was left there, with a little taper which my
aunt forewarned me would bum exactly five minutes, I heard them
lock my door on the outside. Turning these things over in mv
mind, I deemed it possible that my aunt, who could know nothing
of me, might suspect I had a habit of running away, and took pre-
cautions, on that account, to have me in safe keeping.
The room was a pleasant one, at the top of the house, overlooking
the sea, on which the moon was shininor brilliantly. After I had
said my prayers, and the candle had burnt out, I remember how I
still sat looking at the moonlight on the water, as if I could hope to
read my fortune in it, as in a bright book ; or to see my mother
with her child, coming frcrtn Heaven, along that shining path, to
look upon me as she had looked when I last saw her sweet face. I
remember how the solemn feeling with which at length I turned
my eyes away, yielded to the sensation of gratitude and rest which
the sight of the white-curtained bed — and how much more the lying
softly down upon it, nestling in the snow-white sheets ? — inspired.
I remember how I thought of all the solitary places under the night
sky where I had slept, and how I prayed that I never might be
houseless any more, and never might forget the houseless. I re-
member how I seemed to float, then, down the melancl oly glory
of that track upon the sea, away into the woild of dreams.
15
CHAPTER XIV.
MY AUNT MAKES UP HER MIND ABOUT ME.
On going down in the morning, I found my aunt musing io pro
foundly over the breaefast-table, with her elbow on the tray, that thej
contents of the urn liad overflowed the teapot and were laying the
whole table-cloth under water, when ray entrance put her medita-
tions to flight. I felt sure that I had be^n the subject of her reflec-
tions, and was more than ever anxious to know her intentions towards
me. Yet I dared not express my anxiety, lest it should give her
ofience.
My eyes, however, not being so much under control as my
tongue, were attracted towards my aunt very often during breakfast.
I never could look at her for a few moments together but I found
her looking at me — in an odd, thoughtful manner, as if I were an
immense way ofi", instead of being on the other side of the small
round table. When she had finished her breakfast, my aunt very
dehberately leaned back in her chair, knitted her brows, folded her
arms, and contemplated me at her leisure, with such a fixedness of
attention that I was quite overpowered by embarrassment. Not
ha\ing as yet finished my own breakfast, I attempted to hide my
confusion by proceeding with it ; but my knife tumbled over my
fork, my fork tripped up my knife, I chipped bits of bacon a surpris-
ing height into tlie air instead of cutting them for my own eating,
and choked myself with my tea which persisted in gouig the wrong
way instead of the right one, until I gave in altogether, and sat
blushing under my aunt's close scrutiny.
" Hallo !" said my aunt, after a long time.
I looked up, and met her sharp bright glance respectfully.
" I have written to him," said my aunt.
"To— r
242
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 243 «
" To your father-in-law," said my aunt. " I have sent him a lett-er
that I'll trouble him to attend to, or he and I will fall out, I can tell
him !"
" Does he know where I am, aunt ?" I inquired, alarmed.
" I have told him," said my aunt, with a nod.
" Shall I — be — given up to him ?" I faltered.
" I don't know," said my aunt. " We shall see."
" Oh ! I can't think what I shall do," I exclaimed, " if I have to
go back to Mr. Murdstone !"
" I don't know anything about it," said my aunt, shaking her
head. " I can't say, I am sure. We shall see."
My spirits sank under these words, and I became veiy downcast
and heavy of heart. My aunt, without appearing to take much
heed of me, put on a coarse apron with a bib, which she took out of
the press ; washed up the teacups with her own hands ; and, when
everything was washed and set in the tray again, and the cloth
folded and put on the top of the whole, rang for Janet to remove it.
She next swept up the crumbs with a httle broom (putting on a
pair of gloves first), until there did not appear to be one microscopic
speck left on the carpet ; next dusted and arranged the room, which
was dusted and arranged to a hair's breadth already. When all
these tasks were performed to her satisfaction, she took off the gloves
and apron, folded them up, put them in the particular corner of the
press from which they had been taken, brought out her work-box to
her own table in the open window, and sat down, with the green
fan between her and the light, to work.
" I wish you'd go up stairs," said my aunt, as she threaded her
needle, " and give my compliments to Mr. Dick, and Til be glad to
know how he gets on with his Memorial."
I rose with alacrity to acquit myself of this commission.
" I suppose," said my aunt, eyeing me as narrowly as she had
eyed the needle in threading it, " you think Mr. Dick a short name,
eh ?"
" I thought it was rather a short name, yesterday," I confessed.
" You are not to suppose that he hasn't got a longer name, if he
chose to use it," said my aunt, with a loftier air. " Babley — Mr
Uichard Babley — that's the gentleman's true name."
244 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
I was going to suggest, with a modest sense of my youth and the
famiharity I had been ah'eady guilty of, that I had better give him
the full benefit of that name, when my aunt went on to say :
" But don't you call him by it, whatever you do. He can't bear
his name. That's a peculiarity of his. Though I don't know that
it's much of a peculiarity, either ; for he has been ill-used enough
by some that bear it, to have a mortal antipathy for it, Heaven
knows. Mr. Dick is his name here, and everywhere else, now — if
he ever went anywhere else, which he don't. So take care, child,
you don't call him anything hut Mr. Dick."
I promised to obey, and went up-stairs ^vith my message ; think-
ing, as I went, that if Mr. Dick had been working at his Memorial
long, at the same rate as I had seen hiiu working at it, through the
open door, when I came dovrn, he wiis probably getting on very well
indeed. I found him still driving at it v\ith a long pen, and his
head almost laid upon the paper. He was so intent upon it, that I
had ample leisure to observe the large paper kite in the corner, the
confusion of bundles of manuscript, the number of pens, and, above
all, the quantity of ink (which he seemed to have in, in half-gallon
jars by the dozen), before he observed my being present.
" Ha 1 Phoebus !" said Mr. Dick, laying down his pen. " How
does the world go ! I'll tell you what," he added, in a lower tone,
" I shouldn't wish it to be mentioned, but it's a — " here he beckoned
to me, and put his lips close to my ear — " it's a mad world. Mad
as Bedlam, boy !" said Mr. Dick, taking snuff from a round box on
the table, and laughing heartily.
Without presuming to give my opinion on this question, I de-
livered my message.
" Well," said Mr. Dick, in answer, " my compliments to her, and
I — I behere I have made a start. I think I have made a start,"
said Mr. Dick, passing his hand among his grey hair, and casting
anything but a confident look at his manuscript. " You have been
to school ?"
" Yes, sir," I answered, " for a short time."
" Do you recollect the date," said Mr. Dick, looking earnestly at
me, and taking up his pen to note it down, " when King Charles the
First had his head cut ofll"
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 245
I said I believed it happened in the year sixteen hundred and
forty-nine.
" Well," returned Mr. Dick, scratching his ear with his pen, and
looking dubiously at me. " So the books say, but I don't see how
that can be. Because, if it was so long ago, how could the people
about him have made that mistake of putting some of the trouble
out of his head, after it was taken off, into mine .^"
I was very nuich surprised by the inquiry ; but could give no
information on this point.
" It 's very strange," said Mr. Dick, with a despondent look upon
his papei's, and with his hand among his hair again, " that I never
can get that quite right. I never can make that perfectly clear.
But no matter, no matter !" he said cheerfully, and rousing himself,
" there's time enough. My compliments to Miss Trotwood, I am
getting on very well indeed."
I was going away, when he directed my attention to the kite.
" What do you think of that for a kite ?" he said.
I answered that it was a beautiful one. I should think it must
have been as much as seven feet hifjh.
" I made it. We '11 go and fly it, you and I," said Mr. Dick.
" Do you see this ?"
He showed me that it was covered with manuscript, very closely
and laboriously written ; but so plainly, that as I looked along the
hnes, I thought I saw some allusion to King Charles the First's head
again, in one or two places.
" There's plenty of string," said Mr. Dick, " and when it flies high,
it takes the facts a long way. That's my manner of diffusing 'em.
I don't know where they may come down. It's according to circum-
stances, and the wind, and so forth ; but I take my chance of that."
His face was so very mild and pleasant, and had something so
reverend in it, though it was hale and hearty, that I was not sure
but that he was having a good humoured jest wth me. So I
laughed, and he laughed, and we parted the best friends possible.
"Well, child," said my aunt, when I went dovvn stairs. "And
what of Mr. Dick, this morning ?"
I informed her that he sent his comphments, and was getting on
very well indeed.
.240 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
"Wtat do you think of liim ?" said my aunt.
I had some shado"\vy idea of endeavouring to evade the question,
by replying that I thought him a very nice gentleman ; but my aunt
was not to be so put off, for she laid her work down in her lap, and
said, folding her hands upon it :
" Come ! Your sister Betsey Trotwood would have told me what
she thought of any one, directly. Be as like your sister as you can,
and speak out !"
" Is he — is Mr. Dick — I ask because I don't know, aunt — ^is he at
all out of his mind, then ?" I stammered ; for I felt I was on dan-
gerous ground.
" Xot a morsel," said my aunt.
" Oh, indeed," I observed faintly.
" K there is anything in the world," said my aunt, with great
decision and force of manner, " that Mr. Dick is not, it's that."
I had nothing better to offer, than another timid " Oh, indeed !"
" He has been called mad," said my aunt. "I have a selfish
pleasure in saying he has been called mad, or I should not have had
the benefit of his society and advice for these last ten years and up-
wards— in fact, ever since your sister, Betsey Trotwood, disappointed
me."
"Solon(r as that?" I said.
" And nice people they were, who had the audacity to call him
mad," pursued my aunt. " Mr. Dick is a sort of distant connexion
of mine — it doesn't matter how ; I needn't enter into that. If it
hadn't been for me, his own brother would have shut him up for
hfe. That's all."
I am afraid it was hypocritical in me, but seeing that my aunt
felt strongly on the subject, I tried to look as if I felt strongly
too.
" A proud fool ! " said my aunt. " Because his brother was a lit-
tle eccentric — though he is not half so eccentric as a good many
people— he didn't like to have him visible about his house, and sent
him away to some private asylum-place ; though he had been left to
his particular care by their deceased father, who thought him almost
a natural. And a wise man he must have been to th'nk so 1 Mad
himself no doubt."
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 247
Again, as my aunt looked quite convinced, I endeavored to look
quite convinced also.
" So I stepped in," said my aunt, " and made him an offer. I
Baid, Your brother's sane — a great deal more sane than you are, or
ever will be, it is to be- hoped. Let him have his little income, and
come and live with me. / am not afraid of him, / am not proud, 1
am ready to take care of him, and shall not ill-treat him as some
people (besides the asylum folks) have done. After a good deal of
squabbhng," said my aunt, " I got him ; and he has been here ever
since. He is the most friendly and amenable creature in existence ;
and as for advice ! — but nobody knows what that man's mind isj,
except myself."
My aunt smoothed her dress and shook her head, as if she
smoothed defiance of the whole world out of the one, and shook it
out of the other.
" He had a favorite sister," said my aunt, " a good creature, and
rery kind to him. But she did what^they all do — took a husband.
And he did what they all do — made her wretched. It had such an
tflfect upon the mind of Mr. Dick {that^s not madness I hope !) that,
■wmbined with his fear of his brother, and his sense of his unkind-
ness, it threw him into a fever. That was before he came to me,
but the recollection of it is oppressive to him even now. Did he say
anything to you about King Charles the Fu*st, child ? "
" Yes, aunt."
" Ah ! " said my aunt, rubbing her nose as if she were a little
vexed. "That's his allegorical way of expressing it. He connects
his illness with great disturbance and agitation, naturally, and that's
the figure, or the simile, or whatever it's called, which he chooses to
use. And why shouldn't he, if he thinks proper !"
I said : " Certainly, aunt."
" It's not a business-like way of speaking," said my aunt, " nor a
woildly way. I am aware of that ; and that's the reason why I
insist upon it, that there shan't be a word about it in his Memorial."
" Is it a Memorial about his own history that he is writing, aunt?"
" Yes, child," said my aunt, rubbing her nose again. " He is me-
morializing the Lord Chancellor, or the Lord Somebody or other —
one of those people, at all ♦events, who are paid to he memorialised—
248 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
about liis affairs. I suppose it will go in, one of these days. He
hasn't been able to draw it up yet, without introducing that mode
of expressing himself ; but it don't signify ; it keeps him employed."
In fact, I found out afterwards that Mr. Dick had been for up-
wards of ten years endeavouring to keep King Charles the First out
of the Memorial ; but he had been constantly getting into it, and
was there now.
" I say again," said my aunt, " nobody knows what that man's
mind is except myself; and he's the most amenable and friendly
creature in existence. If he likes to fly a kite sometimes, what of
that ! Franklin used to fly a kite. He v/as a Quaker, or something
of that sort, if I am not mistaken. And a Quaker flying a kite is a
much more ridiculous object than any body else."
If I could have supposed that my aunt had recounted these par-
ticulars for my especial behoof, and as a piece of confidence in me, I
should have felt very much distinguished, and should have augured
fevourably from such a marl^ of her good opinion. But I could
hardly help observing that she had launched into them, chiefly be-
cause the question was raised in her own mind, and with ver)'^ little
reference to me, though she had addressed herself to me in the ab-
sence of anybody else.
At the same time, I must say that the generosity of her cham-
pionship of poor harmless Mr. Dick, not only inspired my young
breast with some selfish hope for myself, but warmed it unselfishly
towards her. I believe I began to know that there was something
about my aunt, notwithstanding her many eccentricities and odd hu-
mours, to be honoured and trusted in. Though she was just as
sharp that day, as on the day before, and was in and out about the
donkeys just as often, and was thrown into a tremendous state of
indignation, >when a young man, going by, ogled Janet at a window
(which was one of the gravest misdemeanors that could be commit-
ted against my aunt's dignity), she seemed to me to command more
of my respect, if not less of my fear.
The anxiety I underwent, in the interval which necessarily elapsed
before a reply could be received to her letter to Mr. Murdstone, was
extreme ; but I made an endeavour to suppress it, and to be as agree
able as I could in a quiet way, both to my aunt and Mr. Dick. The
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 249
latter and I would have gone out to fly tlie great kite ; but that I
had still no other clothes than the anything but ornamental garments
with which I had been decorated on the first day, and which confined
me to tlie house, excej)t for an hour after dark, when my aunt, for
my health's sake, paraded me up and down on the cliff outside, be-
fore going to bed. At length the reply from Mr. Murdstone came,
and my aunt informed me, to my infinite terror, that he was coming
to speak to her himself on the next day. On the next day, still
bundled up in my curious habiliments, I sat counting the time,
flushed and heated by the conflict of sinking hopes and rising fears
within me ; and waiting to be startled by the sight of the gloomy
face, whose non-arrival startled me every minute.
My aunt was a little more imperious and stern than usual, but I
observed no other token of her preparing herself to receive the
visitoi so much dreaded by me. She sat at work in the window,
and I sat by, with my thoughts running astray on all possible and
impossible results of Mr. Murdstone's \isit, until pretty late in the
afternoon. Our dinner had been indefinitely postponed ; but it was
growing so late, that my aunt had ordered it to be got ready, when
she gave a sudden alarm of donkeys, and to my consternation and
amazement, I beheld Miss Murdstone, on a side-saddle, ride delibe-
rately over the sacred piece of green, and stop in front of the house,
looking about her.
" Go along ^\^th you !" cried my aunt, shaking her head and her
fist at the window. " You have no business there. How dare you
tresj)ass ? Go along ! Oh, you bold-faced thing !"
My aunt was so exasperated by the coolness with which Miss
Murdstone looked about her, that I really believe she was motionless,
and unable for the moment to dart out according to custom. I
seized the opportunity to inform her who it was ; and that tho
gentleman now coming near the offender (for the way up was very
steep, and he had dropjied behind), was Mr. Murdstone himself.
" I don't care who it is !" cried my aunt, still shaking her head,
and gesticulatmg anything but welc<jme from the bow-window. " I
won't be trespassed upon. I won't allow it. Go away ! Janet, turn
him round. Lead him off!" and I saw, from F>ohind my aunt, a
sort of hurried battle-piece, in which the donkey stood resisting
250 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
everybody, with all Lis four legs planted different ways, while Janet
tried to pull him round by the bndle, Mr. Murdstone tried to lead
him on, Miss Murdstone struck at Janet with a parasol, and several
boys, who had come to see the engagement, shouted vigorously.
But my aunt, suddenly descrying among them the young malefactoi
who was the donkey's guardian, and who was one of the most inve-
terate offenders against her, though hardly in his teens, rushed out
to the scene of action, pounced upon him, captured him, dragged
him, with his jacket over his head, and his heels grinding the ground,
into the garden, and, calling upon Janet to fetch the constables and
justices that he might be taken, tried, and executed on the spot, held
him at bay there. This part of the business, however, did not last
long ; for the young rascal, being expert at a variety of feints and
dodges, of which my aunt had no conception, soon went whooping
away, leaving some deep impressions of his nailed boots in the
flower-beds, and taking his donkey in triumph with him.
Miss Murdstone, during the latter portion of the contest, had dis-
mounted, and was now waiting with her brother at the bottom of
the steps, until my aunt should be at leisure to receive them. My
aunt, a little ruffled by the combat, marched past them into the
house, with great dignity, and took no notice of their presence, until
'"hey were announced by Janet.
" Shall I go away, aunt ?" I asked, trembling.
" No, sir," said my aunt. " Certainly not !" With which she
pushed me into a corner near her, and fenced me in with a chair,
as if it were a prison or a bar of justice. This position I continued
to occupy during the whole interxdew, and from it I now saw Mr.
and Miss Murdstone enter the room.
" Oh !" said my aunt, " I was not aware at first to whom I had
the pleasure of objecting. But I don't allow anybody to ride over
that turf. I make no exceptions. I don't allow anybody to do
it."
"Your regulation is rather awkward to strangers," said Miss
Murdstone.
" Is it !" said my aunt.
Mr. Murdstone seemed afraid of a renewal of hostilities, and inter-
posing began :
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 251
" Miss Trotwood !"
" I beg your pardon," observed my aunt with a keen look.
" You are the Mr. Murdstone who married the widow of my late
nephew, Da\id Copperfield, of Blunderstone Rookery ? — Thought-
why Rookery, / don't know !"
" I am," said Mr, Murdstone.
" You '11 excuse my saying, sir," returned my aunt, " that I think
it w^ould have been a much better and happier thing if you had left
that poor child alone."
" I so ftir agree with what Miss Trotwood has remarked," observed
Miss Murdstone, bridling, " that I consider our lamented Clara to
have been, in all essential respects, a mere child."
" It is a comfort to you and to me, ma'am," said my aunt,
" who are getting on in life, and are not likely to be made
unhappy by our personal attractions, that nobody can say the same
of us."
" No doubt !" returned Miss Murdstone, though, I thought, not
with a -very ready or gTacious assent. " And it certainly might
have been, as you say, a better and happier thing for my brother if
he had never entered into such a marriage. I have always been of
that opinion."
" I have no doubt you have," said my aunt. " Janet," ringing
the bell, " my compliments to Mr. Dick, and beg him to come
down."
Until he came, my aunt sat perfectly upright and stiff, frowning
at the wall. "V\Tien he came, my aunt performed the ceremony of
introduction.
" Mr, Dick. An old and intimate friend. On whose judg-
ment," said my aunt, with emphasis, as an admonition to ^Ir.
Dick, who was biting his forefinger and looking rather foolish,
" I rely."
Mr. Dick took his finger out of his mouth, on this hint, and
stood among the group, with a grave and attentive expression of
face. My aunt inclined her head to Mr. Murdstone, who went
on :
" Miss Trotwood : on the receipt of your letter, I considered it an
252 DAVID COPTERFIELD.
act of ^eater justice to myself, and perhaps of more respect to
you — "
" Thank you," said my aunt, still eyeing him keenly. " Yo\
needn't mind me."
" To answer it in person, however inconvenient the journey,"
pursued Mr. Murdstone, " rather than by letter. This unhappy boy
who has run away fi-om his friends and his occupation — "
" And whose appearance," interposed his sister, directing general
attention to me in my indefinable costume, " is perfectly scandalous
and disgraceful."
" Jane Murdstone," said her brother, " have the goodness not to
interrupt me. This unhappy boy, Miss Trotwood, has been the oc-
casion of much domestic trouble and uneasiness ; both during the
hfetime of my late dear wife, and since. He has a sullen, rebelhous
spirit ; a violent temper ; and an untoward, intractable disposition.
Both my sister and myself have endeavoured to correct his vices,
but ineffectually. And I have felt — we both have felt, I may say ;
my sister being fully in my confidence — that it is right you
should receive this grave and dispassionate assurance from our
hps."
" It can hardly be necessary for me to confirm anything stated by
my brother," said Mks ISIurdstone ; " but I beg to observe that, of all
the boys in the world, I believe this is the worst boy."
" Strong ! " said my aunt, shortly.
" But not at all too strong for the facts," returned Miss Murd-
stone.
" Ha ! " said my aunt. " Well, sir ? "
" I have my own opmions," resumed Mr. Murdstone, whose face
darkened more and more, the more he and my aunt observed each
other, which they did very narrowly, " as to the best mode of bring-
ing him up ; they are founded, in part, on my knowledge of him, and
in part on my knowledge of my own means and resources. I am
responsible for them to myself I act upon them, and I say no more
about them. It is enough that I place this boy under the eye of a
friend of my own, in a respectable business ; that it does not please
him ; that he runs away fi'om it ; makes himself a common vagabouQ
The Momentous lutervicw.
^ DAVID COPPERFIELD. 253
about the country ; and comes here, in rags, to appeal to j^ou, Misa
Trotwood. I wish to set before you, honorably, the exact conse-
quences—so far as they are within my knowledge — <)f your abetting
him in this appeal."
" But about the respectable business first," said my aunt. " If he
had been your own boy, you would have put him to it, jast the same,
I suppose ? "
" If he had been my brother's own boy," returned Miss Murdstone,
striking in, " his character, I trust, would have been altogether dif-
ferent"
" Or if the poor child, his mother, had been alive, he would
still have gone into the respectable business, would he ? " said my
aunt.
" I believe," said Mr. Murdstone, with an inclination of his head,
" that Clara would have disputed nothing, which myself and my
sister Jane Murdstone were agreed was for the best."
Miss Murdstone confirmed this, vnih an audible murmur.
" Umph ! " said my aunt. " Unfortunate baby ! "
Mr. Dick, who had been rattling his money all this time, was
rattling it so loudly now, that my aunt felt it necessary to check him
with a look, before sapng :
" The poor child's annuity died with her ? "
" Died ^vith her," replied Mr. Murdstone.
" And there was no settlement of the httle property — the house and
garden — the what's-its-name Rookery without any rooks in it — upon
her boy."
" It had been left; to her, unconditionally, by her first husband,"
Mr. Murdstone began, when my aunt caught him up with the great-
est irascibility and impatience.
" Good Lord, man, there's no occasion to say that. Left to her
unconditionally ! I think I see Dand Copperfield looking forward to
any condition of any sort or kind, though it stared him point-blank
in the ftice ! Of course it was left to her unconditionally. But when
she married again — when she took that most disastrous step of mar-
rying you, in short," said ray aunt, " to be plain — did no one put in
a word for the boy at that time ? "
254 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" My late wife loved her second husband, madam," said Mr.
Murdstoue, " and trusted implicitly in him."
" Your late wife, sir, was a most unworldly, most unhappy, most
unfortunate baby," returned my aunt, shaking her head at him.
" That's what sh£ was. And now, what have you got to say
next ? "
" Merely this. Miss Trotwood," he returned. " I am here to take
Da^id back — to take him back unconditionally, to dispose of him as
I think proper, and to deal with him as I think right. I am not
here to make any promise, or give any pledge to anybody. You
may possibly have some idea, Miss Trotwood, of abetting him in his
running away, and in his complaints to you. Your manner, which
I must say does not seem intended to propitiate, induces me to tliink
it possible. Now I must caution you that if you abet him once,
you abet him for good and all ; if you step in between him and me
now, you must step in. Miss Trotwood, for ever. I cannot trifle, or
be trifled with. I am here, for the first and last time, to take him
away. Is he ready to go ? If he is not — and you tell me he is
not ; on any pretence ; it is indiflferent to me what — my doors are
shut against him henceforth, and yours, I take it for granted, are
open to him."
To this address, my aunt had hstened with the closest attention,
sitting perfectly u^^right, with her hands folded on one knee, and
looking grimly on the speaker. When he had finished, she turned
her eyes so as to command Miss Murdstone, without otherwise
disturbing her attitude, and said :
" Well, ma'am, have you got anything to remark ? "
'' Indeed, ^liss Trotwood," said Miss Murdstone, " all that I could
say has been so well said by my brother, and all that I know to be
the fact has been so plainly stated by him, that I have nothing to
add except my thanks for your politeness. For your very great
pohteness, I am sure," said Miss Murdstone ; with an irony which
no more afiected my aunt, than it discomjDosed the cannon I had
sbpt by at Chatham.
" And what does the boy say ? " said my aunt. " Are you ready
tc go, David ? "
DAVID COrPERFIELD. 255
I answered no, and entreated her not to let me go. I said tliat
neither Mi*, nor Miss Murdstone had ever liked me, or had ever been
kind to me. That they had made ray mama, who always loved me
dearly, unhappy about me, and that I knew it well, and that Peg-
gotty knew it. I said that I had been more miserable than I
thought anybody could beheve, who only knew how young I was.
And I begged and prayed my aunt — I forget in what terms now,
but I remember that they affected me very much then — to befiiend
and protect me, for my father's sake.
" Mr. Dick," said my aunt, " what shall I do with this child ? "
Mr. Dick considered, hesitated, brightened, and rejoined, " Have
him measured for a suit of clothes directly."
" Mr. Dick," said my aunt, triumphantly, " give me your hand,
for your common sense is invaluable." Having shaken it with great
cordiality, she pulled me towards her, and said to Mr, Murdstone :
" You can go when you like ; I'll take my chance with the boy.
If he's all you say he is, at lea«it I can do as much for him then, as
you have done. But I don't believe a word of it."
" Miss Trotwood," rejoined Mr. Murdstone, shrugging his shoul-
ders, as he rose, " if you were a gentleman "
" Bah ! stuff and nonsense ! " said my aunt. " Don't talk to
me!"
" How exquisitely polite ! " exclaimed Miss Murdstone, rising.
•* Overpowering, really ! "
" Do you think I don't know," said my aunt, turning a deaf ear
to the sister, and continuing to address the brother, and to
shake her head at him with infinite expression, " what kind of hfe
you must have led that poor, unhappy, misdirected baby ? Do you
think I don't know what a woful day it was for the soft little
creature, when you fii-st came in her way — smirking and making
great eyes at her, I '11 be bound, as if you couldn't say boh ! to a
goose ! "
" I never heard anything so elegant ! " said Miss Murdstone.
" Do you think I can't understand you as well as if I had seen
you," pursued my aunt, " now that I do see and hear you — which,
I tell you candidly, Ls anything but a pleasure '!o me? Oh yes,
bless us ! who so smooth and silky as Mr. Murdstone at first ! The
256 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
poor, benighted innocent had never seei , such a man. He was
made of sweetness. He worshipped her. He doted on her boy — ■
tenderly doted on him ! He was to be another father to him, and
they were all to live together in a garden of roses, weren't they !
Ugh ! Get along with you, do ! " said my aunt.
" I never heard anything like this person in my life ! " exclaimed
Miss Murdstone.
" And when you had made sure of the poor little fool," said my
aunt — " God forgive me that I should call her so, and she gone
where you won't go in a hurry — because you had not done wrong
enough to her and hers, you must begin to train her, must you ?
begin to break her, like a poor caged bird, and wear her deluded
hfe away, in teaching her to sing your notes ? "
" This is either insanity or intoxication," said Miss Murdstone, ir
a perfect agony at not being able to turn the current of my aunf s
address towards hereelf ; " and my suspicion is, that it 's intoxi-
cation."
Miss Betsey, without taking the least notice of the interruption,
continued to address herself to Mr. Murdstone as if there had been
no such thill q;.
" Mr. Murdstone," she said, shaking her finger at him, " you were
a tyrant to the simple baby, and you broke her heart. She was a
Io\ing baby — I know that ; I knew it, years before you ever saw
her — and through the best pai't of her weakness, you gave her the
wounds she died of There is the truth for your comfort, however
vou like it. And you and your instruments may make the most
of it."
"Allow me to inquire. Miss Trotwood," interposed Miss Murd-
stone, " whom you are pleased to call, in a choice of words in which
I am not experienced, my brother's instruments ? "
Still stone-deaf to the voice, and utterly unmoved by it, Miss
Betsey pursued her course.
" It was clear enough, as I have told you, yea/s before you ever
•aw her — and why, in the mysterious dispensations of Providence,
vou ever did see her, is more than humanity can comprehend — it
was clear enough that the poor soft Jittle thing would marry some-
body, at some time or other ; but I did hope it wouldn't have been
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 257
aa bad aa it has turned out. That was the time, Mr. Murdstone,
when she gave birth to her boy here," said my aunt ; " to the poor
child you sometimes tormented her through afterwards, which is a
disagreeable remembrance, and makes the sight of him odious now.
Ay, ay ! you needn't wince ! " said my aunt, " I know it 's true
without that."
He had stood by the door, all this while, observant of her with a
smile upon his face, though his black eyebrows were heavily con-
tracted. I remarked now, that, though the smile was on his face
still, his colour had gone in a moment, and he seemed to breathe as
if he had been runnino:.
" Good day, sir ! " said my aunt, " and good bye ! Good day to
you too, ma'am," said my aunt, turning suddenly upon his sister.
" Let me see you ride a donkey over my green again, and as sure as
you have a head upon your shoulders, I'll knock your bonnet off,
and tread upon it ! "
It would require a painter, and no common painter too, to depict
my aunt's face as she delivered hei^self of this very unexpected senti-
ment, and Miss Murdstone's face as she heard it. But the manner ot
the speech, no less than the matter, was so fiery, that Miss Murdstone,
without a word in answer, discreetly put her arm through her bro-
ther's, and walked haughtily out of the cottage ; my aunt remaining
in the window looking after them ; pre})ared, I have no doubt, in
case of the donkey's reapi^earance, to carry her threat into instant
execution.
No attemjjt at defiance being made, however, her face gradually
relaxed, and became so pleasant, that I was emboldened to kiss and
thank her ; which I did with great heartiness, and with both my
arms clasped round lier neck. I then shook hands with Mr. Dick,
who shook hands with me a great many times, and hailed this
happy close of the proceedings with repeated bursts of laughter.
" You'll consider yourself guardian, jointly with me, of this child,
Mr. Dick," said my aunt.
" I shall be delighted," said Mr. Dick, " to be the guardian ot
David's son."
" Very good," returned my aunt, " thafs settled. I have been
thinking, do you know, Mr. Dick, that I might call him Trotwood 2**
16
258 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Certainly, certainly. Call him Trotwood, certainly ," said Mi
Dick. " David's son's Trotwood."
" Trotwood Coppei-field, you mean," returned my aunt.
" Yes, to be sure. Yes. Trotwood Copperfield," said Mr. Dick,
a little abashed.
My aunt took so kindly to the notion, that some ready-made
clothes, which were purchased for me that afternoon, were marked
*' Trotwood Copperfield," in her own handwriting, and in indelible
marking-ink, before I put them on ; and it was settled that all the
other clothes which were ordered to be made for me (a complete
outfit was bespoke that afternoon) should be marked in the
same way.
Thus I began my new life, in a new name, and with every thing
new about me. Now that the state of doubt was over I felt, for
many days, like one in a dream. I never thought that I had a
curious couple of guardians, in my aunt and Mr. Dick. I never
thought of anything about myself, distinctly. The two things clear-
est in my mind were, that a remoteness had come upon the old
Blunderstone life — which seemed to lie in a haze of an immeasura-
ble distance ; and that a curtain had for ever fallen on my life at
Murdstone and Grinby's. No one has ever raised that cm-tain since.
I have hfted it for a moment, even in this narrative, with a reluctant
hand, and dropped it gladly. The remembrance of that life is
fraught with so much pain to me, with so much mental sufiering
and want of hope, that I have never had the courage even to ex-
amine how long I was doomed to lead it. Whether it lasted for a
year, or more, or less, I do not know. I only know that it was, and
ceased to be ; and that I have wi-itten, and there I leave it.
CHAPTER XV.
I MAKE ANOTHER BEGINNING.
Mr. Dick and I soon became the best of friends, and very often,
when his day's work was done, went out together to fly the great
kite. Every day of his hfe he had a long sitting at the Memorial,
which never made the least progress, however hard he labored, for
King Charles the First always strayed into it, sooner or later, and
then it was thrown aside, and another one begun. The patience
and hope with which he bore these perpetual disappointments, the
mild perception he had that there was something wrong about King
Charles the First, the feeble eflforts he made to keep him out, and
the certainty with which he came in, and tumbled the Memorial
out of all shape, made a deep impression on me. What Mr. Dick
supposed would come of the Memorial, if it were completed ; where
he thought it was to go, or what he thought it was to do ; he knew
no more than anybody else, I believe. Nor was it at all necessary
that he should trouble himself with such questions, for if anything
were certain under the sun, it was certain that the Memorial never
would be finished.
It was quite an aflecting sight, I used to tliink, to see him with
the kite when it was up a great height in the air. What he had
told me, in his room, about his belief in its disseminating the state-
ments pasted on it, which were nothing but old leaves of abortive
Memorials, might have been a fancy with him sometimes; but not
when he was out, looking up at the kite in the sky, and feeling it
pull and tug at his hand. He never looked so serene as he did
then. I used to fancy, as I sat by him of an evening on a green
slope, and saw him watch the kite high in the quiet air, that it
hfted his mind out of its confusion^ and bore it (such was my boy-
ish thought) into the skies. As he wound the string in, and it
269
260 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
came lower and lower down out of the beautiful light, until it flut
lered to tlie ground and lay tliere like a dead thing, he seemed tc
wake gradu<illy out of a dream ; and I remember to have seen him
take it up, and look about him in a lost way, as if they had both
come down together, so that I pitied him \vith all my heart.
While I advanced in fnendship and intimacy with Mr. Dick, I
did not go backward in the favor of his staunch fi-iend, my aunt. She
took so kindly to me, that, in the course of a few weeks, she short-
ened my adopted name of Trotw^ood into Trot ; and even encouraged
me to hope that if I went on as I had begun, I might take equal
rank in her affections with my sister Betsey Trotwood.
" Trot," said my aunt one evening, when the backgammon-board
was placed as usual for herself and Mr. Dick, " we must not forget
your education."
This was my only subject of anxiety, and I felt quite dehghted by
her referring to it.
" Should you like to go to school at Canterbury ?" said my aunt.
I replied that I should like it very much, as it was so near her.
" Good," said my aunt. " Should you like to go to-morrow ?"
Being already no stranger to the general rapidity of my aunt's
evolutions, I was not surprised by the suddenness of the proposal,
and said : " Yes."
" Good," said my aunt again. " Janet, hire the grey pony and
chaise to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, and pack up Master Trot-
wood's clothes to-night."
I was gi'eatly elated by these orders ; but my heart smote me for
my selfishness, when I witnessed their effect on Mr. Dick, who was
so low-spirited at the prospect of our separation, and played so ill in
consequence, that my aunt, after gi^^ng him several admonitory raps
on the knuckles with her dice-box, shut up the board, and declined
to play with him any more. But, on hearing fi-om my aunt that I
should sometimes come over on a Saturday, and that he could some-
times come and see me on a Wednesday, he revived ; and vowed to
make another kite for those occasions, of proportions greatly siu*-
passing the present one. In the morning he was downhearted
again, and would have sustained himself by giving me all the money
he had in his possession, gold and silver too, if my aunt had not
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 201
mteq)osed, and limited the gift to five shillings, which, at his eanntst
petition, were afterwards increased to ten. We parted at tlie
garden-gate in a most affectionate manner, and ISIr. Dick did not go
into the house until my aunt had driven me out of sight of it.
My aunt, who was perfectly indifferent to pubhc opinion, drove
the grey pony through Dover in a masterly manner ; sitting high
and stiff' like a state coachman, keeping a steady eye upon him
wherever he went, and making a point of not letting him have his
own way in any respect. When we came into the country road,
she pemiitted him to relax a little, however ; and looking at me
down in a valley of cushion by her side, asked me whether I wiia
happy.
" Very happy indeed, thank you, aunt," I said.
She was much gratified; and both her hands being occupied,
patted me on the head with her whip.
" Is it a large school, aunt ?" I asked. x
" Why, I don't know," said my aunt. " We are going to Mr.
Wickfield's first."
" Does he keep a school ?" I asked.
" No, Trot," said my aunt. " He keeps an office."
I asked for no more information about Mr. Wickfield, as she
offered none, and we conversed on other subjects until we came to
Canterbuiy, where, as it was market-day, my aunt had a gTeat
opportunity of insinuating the grey pony among carts, baskets,
vegetables, and hucksters' goods. The hair-breadth turns and twists
we made, drew down upon us a variety of speeches from the people
standing about, which were not always comphmentaiy ; but my
aunt drove on with perfect indifference, and I dare say would have
taken her own way with as much coolness tlirough an enemy's
country.
At length we stopped before a very old house bulging out over
the road ; a house with long low lattice-windows bulging out still
farther, and beams with carved heads on the ends bulging out too,
so that I fancied the whole house was leaning forward, trying to see
who was passing on the narrow pavement below. It was quite
spotless in its cleanliness. The old-fashioned brass knocker on the
low arched door, ornamented with carved garlands of fruit and
fiowers, twinkled like a star ; the two stx^ne steps descending to the
262 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
door were as white as if they liad been covered with fair linen ; and
all the angles and corners, and carvings and mouldirgs, and quaint
little panes of glass, and quainter little windows, though as old as
the hills, were as pure as any snow that ever fell upon the hills.
Wlien the pony-chaise stopped at the door, and my eyes were
intent upon the house, I saw a cadaverous face appear at a small
window on the ground floor (in a httle round tower that formed one
side of the house), and quickly disappear. The low arched door
then opened, and the face came out. It was quite as cadaverous as
it had looked in the window, though in the gi-ain of it there was
that tinge of red which is sometimes to be observed in the skins of
red-haired people. It belonged to a red-haired person — a youth
of fifteen, as I take it now, but looking much older->-whose hah was
cropped as close as the closest stubble ; who had hardly any
eyebrows, and no eyelashes, and eyes of a red-brown ; so unshel-
tered and unshaded, that I remember wondering how he went to
sleep. He was high-shouldered and bony ; dressed in decent black,
with a white wisp of a neckcloth ; buttoned up to the thi'oat ; and
had a long, lank, skeleton hand, which particularly attracted my
attention, as he stood at the pony's head, rubbing his chin with it,
and looking up at us in the chaise.
"Is ^Ir. Wickfield at home, Uriah Heep?" said my aunt.
" Mr. Wickfield's at home, ma'am," said Uriah Heep, " if you'll
please to walk in there" — j^ointing with his long hand to the room
he meant.
We got out ; and leaving him to hold the pony, went into a long
low parlor looking towards the street, from the window of which I
caught a glimpse, as I went in, of Uriah Heep breathing into the
pony's nostrils, and immediately covering them with his hand, as if
he were putting some spell upon him. Opposite to the tall old
chimney-piece, were two portraits : one of a gentleman with grey
hair (though not by any means an old man) and black eyebrows,
who was looking over some papei-s tied together with red tape ; the
other, of a lady, with a very placid and sweet expression of face,
who was looking at me.
I believe I was turning about in search of Uriah's picture, when,
a door at the farther end of the room opening, a gentleman entered,
at sight of whom I turned to the first-mejntioned portrait again,
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 263
to make quite sure that it had not come out of its frame. But it
was stationary ; and as the o-eutlcman advanced into the Ught, I
saw that he was some years older than when he had had his picture
-painted.
" Miss Betsey Trotwood," said the gentleman, " pray walk in. I
was engaged for the moment, but you'll excuse my being busy.
You know my motive. I have but one in life."
Miss Betsey thanked him, and we went into his room, which was
furnished as an office, with books, papers, tin boxes, and so forth.
It looked into a garden, and had an iron safe let into the wall ; so
immediately over the mantel-shelf, that I wondered, as I sat do^^^l,
how the sweeps got round it when they swept the chimney.
" Well, Miss Trotwood," said Mr. Wicktield ; for I soon found
that it was he, and that he was a lawyer, and steward of the estates
5f a rich gentleman of the county ; " what wind blows you here ?
Not an ill wind, I hope V
" No," replied my aunt, " I have not come for any law."
" That's right, ma'am," said Mr. Wickfield. *' You had better
come for anything else."
His hair was quite white now, though his eyebrows were still
black. He had a very agreeable face, and, I thought, was hand-
some. There was a certain richness in his comj)lexion, which I had
been long accustomed, under Peggotty's tuition, to connect with
port wine ; and I fcincied it was in his voice too, and referred his
growing corpulency to the same cause. He was very cleanly
dressed, in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, and nankeen trowsei's ;
and bis line frilled shirt and cambric neckcloth looked unusually soft
and white, reminding my strolling fancy (I call to mind) of the
plumage on the breast of a swan.
" This is my nephew," said my aunt.
"Wasn't aWare you had one, Miss Trotwood," said Mr. Wickfield.
" ^^y grand-nepliew, that is to say," observed my aunt.
" Wasn't aware you had a grand-nephew, I give you my word,"
said Mr. Wickfield.
" I have ado]>ted him," said my aunt, with a wave of her hand,
importing that h.^s knowledge and his ignorance were all one to her,
"and I have brought him here, to put him to a school where he
264 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
may be thoroughly well taught, and well treated. Now tell me
where that school is, and what it is, and all about it."
" Before I can advise you properly," said Mr. Wickfield, — " the old
question, you know. What 's your motive in this V
" Deuce take the man !" exclaimed my aunt. " Always fishing
for motives, when they 're on the surface ! Why, to make the child
happy and useful."
" It must be a mixed motive, I think," said Mr. Wickfield, shak-
ing his head and smiling incredulously.
" A mixed fiddlestick !" returned my aunt. " You claim to have
one plain motive in all you do yourself. You don't suppose, I hope,
that you are the, only plain dealer in the world ?"
" Ay, but I have only one motive in life. Miss Trotwood," he
rejoined, smiling. " Other people have dozens, scores, hundreds.
I have only one. There's the difference. However, that's beside
the question. The best school ? Whatever the motive, you want
the best ?"
My aunt nodded assent.
" At the best we have," said Mr. Wickfield, considering, " your
nephew couldn't board just now."
" But he could board somewhere else, I suppose," suggested my
aunt.
Mr. Wickfield thought I could. After a httle discussion, he pro-
posed to take my aunt to the school, that she might see it and judge
for herself ; also, to take her, with the same object, to two or three
houses where he thought I could be boarded. My aunt embracing
the proposal, we were all three going out together, when he stopped
and said : '
" Our httle friend here might have some motive, perhaps, for ob-
jecting to the arrangements. I think we had better leave him
behind."
My aunt seemed disposed to contest the point ; but to facilitate
matters I said I would gladly remain behind, if they pleased ; and
retm^ned into Mr. Wickfield's office, where I sat down again, in the
chair I had first occupied, to await their return.
It so happened that this chair was opposite a narrow passage,
which ended in the little circular room where I had seen Uriah
Heep's pale fece looking out of window. Uriah, having taken th«
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 265
pony to a neighboring stable, was at work at a desk in this room,
which had a brass fi'ame on the top to hang papers upon, and on
which the writing he was making a co])y of wiis then hanging.
Though his face was towards me, T tliought, for some time, the writing
being between us, that he could not see me ; but looking that way
more attentively, it made me uncomfortable to observe that, every
now and then, his sleepless eyes would come below the writing, like
two red suns, and stealthily stare at me for I dare say a whola
minute at a ^ime, during which his pen went, or pretended to go, as
cleverly as ever. I made several attempts to get out of their way
— such as standing on a chair to look at a map on the other side of
the room, and poring over the columns of a Kentish newspaper —
but they always attracted me back again ; and whenever I looked
towards those two red suns, I wiis sure to find them, either just
rising or just setting.
At length, much to my relief, my aunt and ^Ir. AVickfield came
back, after a pretty long absence. They were not so successful as I
could have wished ; for though the advantages of the school were
undeniable, my aunt had not approved of any of the boarding-
houses proposed for me.
" It's very unfortunate," said my aunt. " I don't know what to
do. Trot."
" It does happen unfortunately," said Mr. Wickfield. " But I'll
tell you what you can do. Miss Trotwood."
" What's that ?" inquired my aunt.
" Leave your nephew here, for the present. He's a quiet fellow.
He won't disturb me - at all. It's a capital house for study. As
quiet as a mona^^tery, and almost as roomy. Leave him here."
My aunt e\idently liked the offer, though she was dehcate of
accepting it. So did I.
" Come, Miss Trotwood," said Mr. Wickfield. " This is the way
out )f the difficulty. It's only a temporary arrangement, you know.
K it don't act well, or don't quite accord with our mutual con-
venience, he can easily go to the right about. There -will be time
to firid some better place for him in the meanwhile. You had bet-
ter determine to leave him here for the present !"
" I am veiy much obliged to you," said my aunt ; " and so is he,
I see ; but — "
266 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Come! I know what you mean," cried Mr. Wickfield. "You
Bhall not be oppressed by the receipt of favors, Miss Trotwood. You
may pay for him if you hke. We won't be hard about terms, but
you shall pay if you will.''
" On that understanding," said my aunt, " though it doesn't lessen
the real obligation, I shall be very glad to leave him."
" Then come and see my httle housekeeper," said Mr. Wickfield.
We accordingly went up a wonderful old staircase ; with a balus-
trade so broad that we might have gone up that, almost as easily ;
and mto a shady old ch-awing-room, hghted by some three or four
of the quaint windows I had looked up at from the street : which
had old oak seats in them, that seemed to have come of the same
trees as the shining oak floor, and the great beams iu the ceiling. It
was a prettily furnished room, with a piano and some lively furniture
in red and green, and some flowers. It seemed to be all old nooks
and corners ; and in every nook and corner there was some queer
httle table, or cupboard, or bookcase, or seat, or something or other,
that made me think there was not such another good corner in the
room ; until I looked at the next one, and found it equal to it, if not
better. On everything there was the same air of retirement and
cleanliness that marked the house outside.
Mr. Wickfield tapped at a door in a corner of the paneled wall,
and a girl of about my own age came quickly out and kissed him.
On her face, I saw immediately the placid and sweet expression of
the lady whose picture had looked at me down-stairs. It seemed to
my imagination as if the portrait had grown womanly, and the
original remained a child. Although her face was quite bright and
happy, there was a tranquilhty about it, and about her — a quiet,
good, calm spuit — that I never have forgotten ; that I never shall
forget.
This was his little housekeeper, his daughter Agnes, Mr. Wick-
ueld said. Wlien I heard how he said it, and saw how he held her
hand, I guessed what the one motive of his life was.
She had a little basket-trifle hanging at her side, with keys in it ;
and looked as staid and as discreet a housekeeper as the old house
could have. She listened to her father as he told her about me,
with a pleasant face ; and when he had concluded, proposed to my
ftunt that we should go up stairs and see my room. We all went
I
I
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 267
together ; she before us : and a glorious old room it was, with more
oak beams, and diamond panes ; and the broad balustrade going all
the way up to it.
I cannot call to mind where or when, in my childhood, I had seen
a stained glass window in a church. Nor do I recollect its subject.
But I know that when I saw her turn round, in the grave hght of
the old staircase, and wait for us, above, I thought of tliat window ;
and that I associated something of its tranquil brightness with Agnes
Wickfield ever afterwards.
My aunt was as happy as I was, in the arrangement made for
me ; and we went down to the drawing-room again, well pleased
and gratified. As she would not hear of staying to dinner, lest she
should by any chance fail to arrive at home with the grey pony
before dark ; and as I apprehend Mr. Wickfield knew her too well,
to argue any point with her ; some lunch was provided for her
there, and Agnes went back to her governess, and Mr. Wickfield to
his office. So we were left to take leave of one another without any
.restraint.
She told me that everything would be arranged for me by Mr.
Wickfield, and that I should want for nothing, and gave me the
kindest words and the best advice.
" Trot," said my aunt in conclusion, " be a credit to yourself, to
me, and Mr. Dick, and Heaven be ^\^th you !"
I was greatly overcome, and could only thank her, again and again,
and send my love to Mr. Dick.
" Never," said my aunt, " be mean in anything ; never be false ;
never be cruel. Avoid those three vices, Trot, and I can always be
hopeful of you."
I promised, as well as I could, that I would not abuse her kind-
ness or forget her admonition.
" The pony's at tli3 door," said my aunt, " and I am off ! Stay
here."
With these words she embraced me hastily, and went out of the
room, shutting the door after her. At first I was startled by so
abrupt a dc]iaTture, and almost feared I had disjtleased her ; but
when I looked into the street, and snw how dejectedly she got into
tlie chaise, and drove away without looking up, I understood hei
better, and did not do her that injustice.
268 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
By five o'clock, which was Mr. Wickfield's dinner hour, I had
mustered up my spirits again, and was ready for my knife and fork.
ITie cloth was only laid for us two ; but Agnes was waiting in the
drawing-room before dinner, went down with her father, and sat
opposite to him at table. I doubted whether he could have dinel
without her.
We did not stay there after dinner, but came up-stairs into the
drawing-room again : in one snug comer of which, Agnes set glasses
for her father, and a decanter of port wir^e. I thought he would
have missed its uswal flavor, if it had been put there for him by any
otJier hands.
There he sat, taking his -wine, and taking a good deal of it, for
two hours ; while Agnes played on the piano, worked, and talked to
him and me. He was, for the most part, gay and cheeiful with us ;
but sometimes his eyes rested on her, and he fell into a brooding
state, and was silent. She always observed this quickly, as I thought,
and always roused him with a question or a caress. Then he came
out of his meditation, and drank more wine.
Agnes made the tea and presided over it ; and the time passed
away after it, as after dinner, until she went to bed ; when her father
took her in his arms and kissed her, and, she being gone, ordered
candles in his office. Then I went to bed too.
But in the course of the evening I had rambled down to the door,
and a httle way along the street, that I might have another peep at
the old houses, ind the gray Cathedral ; and might think of my
coming through ^.hat old city on my journey, and of my passing the
very house I hv< i in, without knowing it. As I came back, I saw
Uriah Heep s)i 'tting up the office ; and feeling friendly towards
e^^ery body, wen' in and spoke to him, and at parting, gave him my
hand. But oh, what a clammy hand his was ! as ghostly to the
touch as to thf sight ! I rubbed mine aftei'wards to warm it, and
to rub his off.
It was such an uncomfortable hand, that, when I went to my
room, it was n'.ill cold and wet upon my memory. Leaning out of
window, and seeing one of the faces on the beam-ends looking at
ms sideways, I fancied it was Uriah Heep got up there somehow,
and shut him out in a hurry.
CHAPTER XYI.
I AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE.
Next morning, after breakfast, I entered on school life again. I
vent, accompanied by Mr. Wickfield, to the scene of my future
studies — a grave building in a court-yard, with a learned air about
it that seemed very well suited to the stray rooks and jackdaws who
came down from the Cathedral towers to walk with a clerkly bearing
on the grass-plot — and was introduced to my new master, Doctor
Stronor.
Doctor Strong looked almost as rusty, to my thinking, as the tall
h-on rails and gates outside the house ; and almost as stitf and heavy
as the great stone urns that flanked them, and were set up, on the
top of the red-brick wall, at regular distances all round the court,
like subHmated skittles, for Time to i)lay at. He was in his library
(I mean Doctor Strong was), with his clothes not particularly well
brushed, and his hair not particularly well combed ; his knee-smalls
unbraced ; his long black gaiters unbuttoned ; and his shoes yawn-
ing Uke two caverns on the hearth-rug. Turning upon me a lustre-
less eye, that reminded me of a long-forgotten blind old horse who
once used to croj) the grass, and tumble over the graves, in Blunder-
stone churchyard, he said he was glad to see me : and then he gave
me his hand ; which I didn't know what to do with, as it did nothing
for itself.
But, sitting at work, not far off from Doctor Strong, was a very
pretty young lady — whom he called Annie, and who was his daugh-
ter, I supposed — who got me out of my difficulty by kneeling down
to put Doctor Strong's shoes on, and button his gaiters, which she
did \vith great cheerfulness and quickness. Wlien she had finished,
and we were going out to the school-room, I was much surprised to
bear Mr. Wickfield, in bidding her good morning, address her aa
269
^70 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Mrs. Strong ;" and I was wondering could she be Doctor Strong's
son's wife, or could she be Mrs. Doctor Strong, when Doctor Strong
himself unconsciously enlightened me.
" By the bye, Wickfield," he said, stopping in a passage with his
hand on my shoulder ; " you have not found any suitable provision
for my wife's cousin yet ?"
" No," said Mr. Wickfield. " No. Not yet."
" I could wish it done as soon as it can be done, Wickfield," said
Doctor Strong, " for Jack Maldon is needy, and idle ; and of those
two bad things, worse things sometimes come. What does Doctor
Watts say," he added, looking at me, and moving his head to the
time of his quotation, " ' Satan finds some mischief still, for idle
hands to do.' "
" Egad, doctor," returned Mr. Wickfield, " if Doctor Watts knew
mankind, he might have written, with as much truth, ' Satan finds
«ome mischief still, for busy hands to do.' The busy people achieve
their full share of mischief in the world, you may rely upon it.
What have the people been about, who have been the busiest in
getting money, and in getting power, this century or two ? No
mischief ?"
" Jack ]\Ialdon wdll never be very busy in getting either, I expect,"
said Doctor Strong, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
" Perhaps not," said Mr. Wickfield ; " and you bnng me back to
the question, with an apology for digressing. No, I have not been
able to dispose of Mr. Jack Maldon yet. I beheve," he said this
with some hesitation, " I penetrate your motive, and it makes the
thino; more difficult."
" My motive," returned Dr. Strong, " is to make some suitable
provision for a cousin, and an old playfellow, of Annie's."
" Yes, I know," said Mr. Wickfield ; " at home or abroad."
" Aye !" replied the Doctor, apparently wondering why he em-
phasised these words so much. " At home or abroad."
" Your own ex|Dression, you know," said Mr. Wickfield. " Oi
abroad."
" Surely," the Doctor answered. " Surely. One or other."
" One or other ? Have you no choice ?" asked Mr. Wickfield.
" No," returned the Doctor.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 271
" No ?" witli a'^tonishment
" Not the least."
" No motive," said Mr. Wickfield, " for meaning abroad, and not
at home V
" No," returned the Doctor.
" I am bound to beUeve you, and of course I do believe you,"
said Mr. Wickfield. " It might have simplified my office very
much, if I had known it before. But I confess I entertained another
impression."
Doctor Strong regarded him with a puzzled and doubting look,
which almost immediately subsided into a smile that gave me great
encouragement ; for it was full of amiability and sweetness, and
there was a simplicity in it, and indeed in his whole manner, when
the studious, pondering frost upon it was got through, very attractive
and hopeful to a young scholar like me. Repeating " no," and " not
the least," and other short assurances to the same purport. Doctor
Strong jogged on before us, at a queer, uneven pace ; and we fol-
lowed : Mr. Wickfield looking grave, I observed, and shaking his
head to himselt* without knowing that I saw him.
The school-room was a pretty large hall, on the quietest side of
the house, confronted by the stately stare of some half-dozen of the
great urns, and commanding a peep of an old secluded garden be-
longing to the Doctor, where the peaches were ripening on the
sunny south wall. There were two great aloes, in tubs, on the turf
outside the windows ; the broad hard leaves of which plant (look-
ing as if they were made of painted tin) have ever since, by asso-
ciation, been symbolical to me of silence and retirement. About
tive-and-twenty boys were studiously engaged at their books when
we went in, but they rose to give the Doctor good morning, and
remained standing when they saw Mr. Wickfield and me.
" A new boy, young gentlemen," said the Doctor ; " Trotwood
Copperfield."
One Adams, who was the head-boy, then stepped out of his place
and welcomed rae. He looked like a young clergyman, in his white
cravat, but he was very affable and good-humored ; and he showed
me my place, and presented me to the masters, in a gentlemanly
way that would have put me at my ease, if anything could.
272 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
It seemed to me so long, however, since I had been among such
boys, or among any companions of my own age, except Mick Wal-
ker and Mealey Potatoes, that I felt as strange as [ ever have done
in all my life. I was so conscious of having passed through scenes
of which they could have no knowledge, and of having acquired ex-
periences foreign to my age, appearance, and condition, as one of
them, that I half beheved it was an imposture to come there as an
ordinary httle schoolboy. I had become, in the Murdstone and
Grinby time, however short or long it may have been, so unused to
the sports and games of boys, that I knew I was awkward and in-
experienced in the commonest things belonging to them. Whatever
I had learnt, had so slipped away ft'om me in the sordid cares of my
life from day to night, that now, when I was examined about what
I knew, I knew nothing, and was put into the lowest form of the
school. But, troubled as I was, by my want of boyish skill, and of
book-learning too, I was made infinitely more uncomfortable by the
consideration, that, in what I did know, I was much faither removed
from my companions than in what I did not. My mind ran upon
what they would think, if they knew of my famihar acquaintance
with the King's Bench Prison ? Was there anything about me
which would reveal my proceedings in connexion with the Micawber
family — all those pawnings, and sellings, and suppers — in spite of
myself? Suppose some of the boys had seen me coming through
Canterbury, wayworn and ragged, and should find me out'? What
would they say, who made so light of money, if they could know
how I had scraped my halfpence together, for the purchase of my
daily saveloy and beer, or my slices of pudding ? How would it
affect them, who were so innocent of London life, and London streets,
to discover how knowing I was (and was iishamed to be) in some of
the meanest phases of both ? All this ran in my head so much, on
that fii-st day at Doctor Strong's, that I felt distrustful of my slightest
look and gesture ; shrunk within myself whensoever I was approach-
ed by one of my new schoolfellows ; and hurried off the minute
Bchool was over, afraid of committing myself in ray response to any
fiiendly notice or advance.
But there was such an influence in Mr. Wickfield's old house, that
when I knocked at it, with my new school-books under my arm, I
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 273
began to feel my uneasiness softening away. As I went up to my
airy old room, the gi*ave shadow of the staircase seemed to fall upon
my doubts and fears, and to make the past more indistinct. I sat
there, sturdily conning my books, until dinner time (we were out of
school for good at three) ; and went down, hopeful of becoming a
passable sort of boy yet.
Agnes was in the drawing- room, waiting for her father, who was
detained by some one in his office. She met me with her pleasant
smile, and asked me how I liked the school. I told her I should hke
it very much, I hoped ; but I was a httle strange to it at first.
" You have never been to school," I said, " have you ?"
" Oh, yes ! Every day."
" Ah, but you mean here, at your own home ?"
" Papa couldn't spare me to go anywhere else," she answered,
smiling and shaking her head. " His housekeeper must be in his
house, you know."
" He is very fond of you, I am sure," I said.
She nodded " Yes," and went to the door to hsten for his coming
up, that she might meet him on the stairs. But, as he was not
there, she came back again.
" Mama has been dead ever since I was born," she said, in her
quiet way. "I only know her picture, down stairs. I saw you
looking at it yesterday. Did you think whose it was ?"
I told her yes, because it was so like herself.
" Papa says so, too," said Agnes, pleased. " Hark ! That's papa
now !"
Her bright calm face lighted up with pleasure as she went to
meet him, and as they came in, hand in hand. He greeted me
cordially ; and told me I should certainly be happy under Doctor
Strong, who was one of the gentlest of men.
" There may be some, perhaps — I don't know that there are —
who abuse his kindness," said Mr. Wicktield. " Never be one of
those, Trotwood, in anything. He is the least suspicious of man-
kind ; and whether that's a merit, or whether it 's a blemish, it
deserves consideration in all dealings with the Doctor, great or
small."
He spoke, I thought, as if he were weary, or dissatisfied with
17
274 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
something ; but I did not pursue the question in my mind, for din-
ner was just then announced, and we went down and took the same
seats as before.
We had scarcely done so, when Uriah Heep put in his red head
and his lank hand at the door, and said :
" Here's Mr. Maldon begs the favor of a word, sir."
" I am but this moment quit of Mr. Maldon," said his master.
" Yes, sir," returned Uriah ; " but Mr. Maldon has come back, and
he begs the favor of a word."
As he held the door open with his hand, Uriah looked at me, and
/ooked at Agnes, and looked at the dishes, and looked at the plates,
and looked at every object in the room, I thought, — ^yet seemed to
look at nothing ; he made such an appearance all the while of keep-
ing his red eyes dutifully on his master.
" I beg your pardon. It 's only to say, on reflection," observed a
voice behind Uriah, as Uriah's head was pushed away, and the
speaker's substituted — " pray excuse me for this intrusion — that as it
seems I have no choice in the matter, the sooner I go abroad, the
better. My cousin Annie did say, when we talked of it, that she
hked to have her friends within reach rather than to have them
banished, and the old Doctor — "
" Doctor Strong, was that ?" Mr. Wickfield interposed, gravely.
" Doctor Strong of course," returned the other ; " I call him the
old Doctor — it's all the same, you know."
" I don't know," returned Mr. Wickfield.
" Well, Doctor Strong," said the other — " Doctor Strong was of
the same mind, I believed. But as it appears from the course you
take with me that he has changed his mind, why there's no more to
be said, except that the sooner I am off, the better. Therefore, I
thought I'd come back and say, that the sooner I am off, the better.
When a i)lunge is to be made into the water, it 's of no use hngering
on the bank."
" There shall be as little lingering as possible, in your case, ^Ir.
Maldon, you may depend upon it," said Mr. Wickfield.
" Thank'ee," said the other. " Much obliged. I don't want to
look a gift-horse in the mouth, which is not a gracious thing to do ;
f therwise, I dare say, mycous in Annie could easily arrange it in her
DAVID COrPERFIELD. 275
own way. I suppose Annie would only have to say to the old
Doctor—"
" Meaning that Mrs. Strong would only have to say to her hus-
band— do I follow you ?" said Mr. Wickfield.
" Quite so," returned the other, " — would only have to say, that
she wanted such and such a thing to be so and so ; and it would
be so and so, as a matter of course."
" And why as a matter of course, Mr. Maldon ?" asked Mr. Wick-
field, sedately eating his dinner.
" Why, because Annie 's a charming young girl, and the old
Doctor — Doctor Strong, I mean — is not quite a charming young
boy," said Mr. Jack Maldon, laughing. " No ofience to anybody,
Mr. Wickfield. I only mean that I suppose some compensation is
fair and reasonable, in that sort of marriage."
" Compensation to the lady, sir ?" asked Mr. Wickfield gravely.
" To the lady, sir," Mr. Jack Maldon answered, laughing. But
appearing to remark that Mr. Wickfield went on with his dinner m
the same sedate, immoveable manner, and that there was no hope
of making him relax a muscle of his face, he added :
" However, I have said what I came back to say, and, with an-
other apology for this intrusion, I may take myself ofi". Of coui-se
I shall observe your directions, in considering the matter as one to
be arranged between you and me solely, and not to be referred to,
up at the Doctor's."
" Have you dined ?" asked Mr. Wickfield, with a motion of his
hand towards the table.
" Thank'ee. I am going to dine," said Mr. Maldon, " with my
cousin Annie. Good bye I"
Mr. Wickfield, without rising, looked after him thoughtfully as he
went out. He was rather a shallow sort of young gentleman, I
thought, with a handsome face, a rapid utterance, and a confident,
bold air. And this was the first 1 ever saw of Mr. Jack Mal-
don ; whom I had not expected to see so soon, when I heard the
Doctor speak of him that morning.
When we had dined, we went up-stairs again, where everything
went on exactly as on the previous day. Agnes set the ghisses and
deciiutei-s in the same corner, and Mr. Wickfield sat down to drink,
276 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
k •
and drank a good deal. Agnes played the piano to him, sat by
him, and worked and talked, and played some games at dominoes
Avith me. In good time she made tea ; and afterwards, when I
brought down my books, looked into them, and showed me what
she knew of them (which was no slight matter, though she said it
was), and what was the best way to learn and understand them. I
see her, with her modest, orderly, placid manner, and I hear her
beautiful calm voice, as I write these words. The influence for all
good, which she came to exercise over me at a later time, begins
already to descend upon my breast. I love httle Em'ly, and I don't
love Agnes — no, not at all in that way — but I feel that there are
goodness, peace, and truth, wherever Agnes is ; and that the soft
light of the colored window in the church, seen long ago, falls on
her always, and on me wdien I am near her, and on everything
around.
. The time having come for her withdrawal for the night, and she
having left us, I gave Mr. Wickfield my hand, preparatory to going
away myself. But he checked me and said : " Should you like to
stay with us, Trotwood, or to go elsewhere 2"
" To stay," I answered, quickly.
" You are sure ?"
" If you please. If I may !"
" Why, it 's but a dull life that we lead here, boy, I am afraid,*"
he said.
" Not more dull for me than Agnes, sir. Not dull at all !"
" Than Agnes," he repeated, walking slowly to the great chimney
piece, and leaning against it. " Than Agnes ! "
He had drunk wine that evening (or I fancied it) until his eyes
were bloodshot. Not that I could see them now, for they were cast
down, and shaded by his hand ; but I had noticed them a little
while before.
" Now I wonder," he muttered, " wbether my Agnes tires of me.
When should I ever tire of her ! But that 's different — that 's
quite different."
He was musing — not speaking to me ; so I remained quiet.
" A dull old house," he said, " and a monotonous life ; but I must
have her near me. I must k6ep her near me. K the thought that
DAVID CpPPERFIELD. 277
4
I may die and leave my darling, or that my darling may die and
leave me, comes, like a spectre, to distress my happiest houi*s, and
IS only to be drowned in "
He did not supply the word ; but pacing slowly to the place
where he had sat, and mechanically going through the action of
pouring wine from the empty decanter, set it down and paced back
aofain.
" If it is miserable to bear, when she is here," he said, " what
would it be, and she away ? No, no, no. I can not try that."
He leaned against the chimney-piece, brooding so long that I
could not decide whether to run the risk of disturbing him by going,
or to remain quietly where I was, until he should come out of his
reverie. At length he aroused himself, and looked about the room
until his eyes encountered mine.
" Stay with us, Trotwood, eh ?" he said, in his usual manner, and
as if he were answering something I had just said. " I am glad of
it. You are company to us both. It is wholesome to have you
here. Wholesome for me, wholesome for Agnes, wholesome per-
haps for all of us."
" I am sure it is for me, sir," I said. " I am so glad to be
here."
" That 's a fine fellow !" said Mr. Wickfield. " As long as you
are glad to be here, you shall stay here." He shook hands with
me upon it, and clapped me on the back ; and told me that when I
had anything to do at night after Agnes had left us, or when I
wished to read for my own pleasure, I was free to come to his room,
if he were there and if I desired it for company's sake, and to sit
with him. I thanked him for his consideration ; and, as he went
down soon afterwards, and I was not tired, went down too, with
a book in my hand, to avail myself, for half-an-hour, of his permis-
sion.
But, seeing a light in the little round office, and immediately feel-
ing myself attracted towards Uriah Heep, who had a sort of fascina-
tion for me, I went in there instead. I found Uriah reading a great
fat book, with such demonstrative attention, that his lank fore-finger
followed up every line as he read, and made clammy tracks along
the page (or so I fully believed) like a snail.
278 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" You are working late to-night, Uriah," says I.
" Yes, Master Copperfield," says Uriah.
As I was getting on the stool opposite, to talk to him more con-
veniently, I observed that he had not such a thing as a smile about
him, and that he could only widen his mouth and make two hard
creases down his cheeks, one on each side, to stand for one.
" I am not doing office-work, Master Copperfield," said Uriah.
" What work, then ?" I asked.
" I am improving my legal knowledge. Master Copperfield," said
Uriah. " I am going through Tidd's Practice. Oh, what a writer
Mr. Tidd is. Master Copperfield !"
My stool was such a tower of observation, that as I w^atched him
reading on again, after this rapturous exclamation, and following up
the hnes with his fore-finger, I observed that his nostrils, which were
thin and pointed with sharp dints in them, had a singular and most
uncomfortable way of expanding and contracting themselves — that
they seemed to twinkle, instead of his eyes, which hardly ever twin-
kled at all.
" I suppose you are quite a great lawyer ?" I said after looking at
him for some time.
" Me, Master Copperfield ?" said Uriah. " Oh, no ! I'm a very
umble person."
It was no fancy of mine about his hands, I observed ; for he fre-
quently ground the palms against each other as if to squeeze them
dry and warm, besides often wii^ing them, in a stealthy way, on his
pocketrhandkerchief
" I am well aware that I am the umblest person going," said Uriah
Heep, modestly ; " let the other be where he may. My mother is
likewise a very umble person. We live in a numble abode. Master
Copperfield, but have much to be thankful for. My father's former
calling was umble. He was a sexton."
" AVhat is be now ?" I asked.
" He is a partaker of glory at present. Master Copperfield," said
Uriah Heep. " But we have much to be thankful for. How much
have I to be thankful for, in living with Mr. Wickfield !"
I asked Uriah if he had been h\dng with Mr. Wickfield long ?
" I have been with him, goin^ on four year, Master Copperfield,"
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 279
said Uriah ; shutting up his book, after carefully marking the place
where he had left off. " Sinct a year after my father's death. How
much have I to be thankful for, in that ! ^How much have I to be
thankful for, in Mr. Wickfield's kind intention to give me my arti-
cles, which would otherwise not lay within the umble means of
mother and self !"
" Then, when your articled time is over, you'll be a regular law-
yer, I suppose ?" said I.
" With the blessing of Providence, Master Copperfield," returned
Uriah,
" Perhaps you'll be a partner in Mr. Wickfield's business, one of
these days," I said, to make myself agreeable ; " and it will be
"Wickfield and Heep, or Heep, late Wickfield."
" Oh, no. Master Copperfield," returned Uriah, shaking his head.
'* I am much too umble for that !"
He certainly did look uncommonly like the carved face on the
beam outside my window, as he sat, in his humility, eyeing me side-
ways, with his mouth widened, and the creases in his cheeks.
" Mr. Wickfield is a most excellent man, Master Copperfield," said
Uriah. " If you have known him long, you know it, I am sure,
much better than I can inform you."
I replied that I was certain he was ; but that I had not known
him long myself, though he was a friend of my aunt's.
" Oh, indeed. Master Copperfield," said Uriah. " Your aunt is a
sweet lady. Master Copperfield !"
He had a way of writhing when he wanted to express enthusiasm,
which was veiy ugly ; and which diverted my attention from the
compliment he had paid my relation, to the snaky tvvistings of his
throat and body.
" A sweet lady, Master Copperfield !" said Uriah Heep. " She
has a great admiration for Miss Agnes, Master Copperfield, I
believe ?"
I said " Yes," boldly ; not that I knew anything about it, Heaven
forgive me !
" I hope you have, too, Master Copperfield," said Uriah. " But I
am sufe vou must have."
" Everybody must have," I returned.
280 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield," said Uriah Heep, " for that
remark ! It is so true ! Umble as I am, I know it is so true ! Oh,
thank you. Master Copperfield !"
He ^vrithed himself quite off his stool in the excitement of his
feehngs, and being off, began to make arrangements for going
home.
" Mother will be expecting me," he said, referring to a pale, inex-
pressive-faced watch in his pocket, " and getting uneasy ; for though
we are very umble. Master Copperfeld, we are much attached to
one another. If you would come and see us, any afternoon, and
take a cup of tea at our lowly dwelHng, mother would be ^ proud
of your company as I should be."
I said I should be glad to come.
"Thank you. Master Copperfield," returned Uriah, putting his
book away upon a shelf — " I suppose you stop here, some time,
Master Copperfield ?"
I said I was going to be brought up there, I behaved, as long as
I remained at school.
" Oh, indeed !" exclaimed Uriah. " I should think you would
come into the business at last. Master Copperfield 1"
I protested that I had no views of that sort, and that no such
scheme was entertained in my behalf by anybody ; but Uriah insisted
on blandly replying to all my assurances, " Oh, yes, Master Copper-
field, I should think you would, indeed !" and, " Oh, indeed. Master
Copperfield, I should think you would, certainly ! " over and
over again. Being, at last, ready to leave the office for the
night, he asked me if it would suit my convenience to have the light
put out ; and on my answering " Yes," instantly extinguished it.
After shaking hands with me — his hand felt like a fish, in the dark
— ^he opened the door into the street a very little, and crept out, and
shut it, leaving me to grope «y way back into the house : which
cost me some trouble and a fall over his stool. This was the prox-
imate cause, I suppose, of my dreaming about him, for what appeared
to me to be half the night ; and dreaming, among other things, that
he had launched Mr. Peggotty's house on a piratical expedition,
with a black flag at the mast-head, bearing the inscription " Tidd's
Practice," under which diabolical ensign he was carrying me and
little EmUy to the Spanish Main to be drowned.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 281
I got a little the better of my uneasiness when I went to schoo'
next day, and a good deal the bettor next day, and so shook it off
by degrees that in less than a fortnight I was quite at home, and
hap})y, among my new companions. I Wcis awkward enough in
their games, and backward enough in their studies ; but custom
would improve me in the first respect, I hoped, and hard work in
the second. Accordingly, I went to work very hard, both in play
and in earnest, and gained great commendation. And, in a very
little while, the Murdstone and Grinby life became so strange to me
that I hardly believed in it, while my present life grew so familiar,
tliat I seemed to have been leadinof it a lon«r time.
Doctor Strong's w;is an excellent school ; as different from Mr.
Creakle's as good is fi*om evil. It was very gravely and decorously
ordered, and on a sound system ; with an appeal, in everything, to
the honour and good faith of the boys, and an avowed intention to
rely on their possession of those quahties unless they proved them-
selves unworthy of it, which worked wonders. We all felt that we
had a part in the management of the place, and in sustaining its
character and dignity. Hence, we soon became warmly attached to
it — I am sure I did for one, and I never knew, in all my time, of
any other boy being otherwise — and learnt with a good ^^^ll, desiring
to do it credit. We had noble games out of hours, and plenty of
Hberty ; but even then, as I remember, we were well spoken of in
the town, and rarely did any disgrace, by our appearance or man-
ner, to the reputation of Doctor Strong and Doctor Strong's boys.
Some of the higher scholars boarded in the Doctor's house, and
through them I learnt, at second hand, some particulars of the
Doctor's history — as how he had not yet been married twelve
months to the beautiful young lady I had seen in the study, whom
he had married for love; as she had not a sixpence, and had a
world of poor relations (so our fellows said) ready to swarm the
Doctor out of house and home. Also, how the Doctor's cogiUiting
manner was attributable to his being always engaged in looking out
for Greek roots ; which, in my innocence and ignorance, I supposed
to be a botanical furor on the Doctor's part, especially as he always
looked at the ground when he walked about — until I understood
that they W(;re roots of words, with a view to a new Dictionary,
282 DAVID COPTERFIELD.
whicli he had in contemplation. Adams, our head-boy, who had a
turn for mathematics, had made a calculation, I was informed, of the
time this Dictionary would take in completing, on the Doctor's plan,
and at the Doctor's i-ate of going. He considered that it might be
done in one thousand six hundred and forty-nine years, counting
fi'om the Doctor's last, or sixty-second, birthday.
But the Doctor himself was the idol of the whole school ; and it
must have been a badly composed school if he had been anything
else, for he was the kindest of men ; with a simple faith in him that
might have touched the stone hearts of the very urns upon the wall.
As he walked up and down that part of the court-yard which was at
the side of the house, with the stray rooks and jackdaws looking
after him with their heads cocked slyly, as if they knew how much
more knowing they were in worldly affairs than he, if any sort of
vagabond could only get near enough to his creaking shoes to
attract his attention to one sentence of a tale of distress, that vaga-
bond was made for the next two days. It was so notorious in the
house, that the masters and head-boys took pains to cut these marau-
ders off at angles, and to get out of windows, to turn them out of
the court-yard, before they could make the Doctor aware of their
presence ; which was sometimes happily effected within a few yards
of him, without his knowing anything of the matter, as he jogged to
and fro. Outside his own domain, and unprotected, he was a very
sheep for the shearers. He would have taken his gaiters off his legs,
to give away. In fact, there was a story current among us (I have
no idea, and never had, on what authority, but I have believed it for
so many years that I feel quite certain it is true), that on a frosty
day, one winter time, he actually did bestow his gaiters on a beggar-
woman, who occasioned some scandal in the neighbourhood by ex-
hibiting a fine infant from door to door, vsrapped in those garments,
which were universally recognised, being as well known in the
vicinity as the Cathedral. The legend added that the only person
who did not identify them was the Doctor himself, who, when they
were shortly afterwards displayed at the door of a little second-hand
shop of no very good repute, where such things were taken in ex-
change for gin, was more than once observed to handle them ap-
provingly, as if admiring some curious novelty in the pattern, and
considering them an improvement on his own.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 283
It was very pleasant to see the Doctor with his pretty young wife.
He had a fatherly, benignant way of showing his fondness for her,
vhieh seemed in itself to express a good man. I often saw them
walking in the garden where the peaches were, and I sometimes had
a nearer observation of them in the study or the parlor. She ap-
peared to me to take great care of the Doctor, and to like him very
much, though I never thought her vitally interested in the
Dictionary : some cumbrous fragments of which work the Doctor
always carried in his pockets, and in the hning of his hat, and generally
seemed to be expounding to her as they walked about.
I saw a good deal of Mrs. Strong, both because she had taken a
liking for me on the morning of my introduction to the Doctor, and
was always afterwards kind to me, and interested in me ; and be-
cause she was very fond of Agnes, and was often backwards and for-
wards at our house. There was a curious constraint between her
and Mr. Wickfield, I thought (of whom she seemed to be afi-aid),
that never wore oft*. When she came there of an eveninof, she al-
ways shrunk from accepting his escort home, and ran away with me
instead. And sometimes, as we were running gaily across the
Cathedral yard together, expecting to meet nobody, we would meet
Mr. Jack Maldon, who was always surprised to see us.
Mrs. Strong's mama was a lady I took great delight in. Her
name was Mrs. Markleham ; but our boys used to call her the Old
Soldier, on account of her generalship, and the skill with which she
marshalled great forces of relations against the Doctor. She was a
little, sharp-eyed woman, who used to wear, when she was dressed,
one unchangeable cap, ornamented with some artificial flowers, and
two artificial butterflies supposed to be hovering above the flowers.
There was a superstition among us that this cap had come from
France, and could only originate in the workmanship of that ingeni-
ous nation : but all I certainly know about it, is, that it always made
its appearance of an evening, wheresoever Mrs. Markleham made her
appearance ; that it was carried about to friendly meetings in a Hin-
doo basket ; that the butterflies had the gift of trembling constantly ;
and that they improved the shining hours at Doctor Strong's ex-
pense, like busy bees.
I observed the Old Soldier — not to adopt the name disrospectfrilly
284 DAVID COPPEKFiELD.
— to pretty good advantage, on a night whicla is made memorable
to me by something else I shall relate. It was the night of a little
party at the Doctor's, which was given on the occasion of Mr. Jack
Maldon's departure for India, whither he was going as a cadet, or
something of that kind : Mr. Wickfield having at length arrarged
the business. It happened to be the Doctor's birthday, too. We
had a holiday, had made presents to him in the morning, had made
a speech to him through the head-boy, and had cheered him until
we were hoarse, and until he had shed tears. And now, in the
evening, Mr. Wickfield, Agnes, and I, w^ent to have tea with him in
his private capacity.
Mr. Jack Maldon was there, before us. Mrs. Strong, dressed in
white, wdth cherry-colored ribbons, was playing the piano, when we
wTnt in ; and he was leaning over her to turn the leaves. The clear
red and white of her complexion w^as not so blooming and flow^er-like
as usual, I thought, when she turned round ; but she looked very
pretty, wonderfully pretty.
" I have forgotten, Doctor," said Mrs. Strong's mama, when we
were seated, " to pay you the compliments of the day — though they
are, as you may suppose, very far from being mere compliments in
my case. Allow me to wish you many happy returns."
" I thank you, ma'am," replied the Doctor.
" Many, many, many, happy returns," said the Old Soldier. " Not
only for your own sake, but for Annie's, and John Maldon's, and
many other people's. It seems but yesterday to me, John, when you
were a little creature, a head shorter than Master Copperfield, mak-
ing baby-love to Annie behind the gooseberry bushes in the back-
garden."
" My dear mama," said Mrs. Strong, " never mind that now."
" Annie, don't be absurd," returned her mother. " If you are to
blush to hear of such things, now you are an old married woman,
when are you not to blush to hear of them ?"
" Old ?" exclaimed Mr. Jack Maldon. " Annie ? Come !"
" Yes, John," returned the Soldier. " Virtually, an old married
woman. Although not old by years — for when did you ever hear
me say, or who has ever heard me say, that a girl of twenty was old
by years ! — ^your cousin is the wife of the Doctor, and, as such, what
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 285
I have described her. It is well for you, John, that your cousin ta
tlie wife of the Doctor. You have found in him an influential and
kind friend, who will be kinder yet, I venture to predict, if you de-
serve it. I have no false pride. I never hesitate to admit, frankly,
that there are some members of our family who want a friend. You
were one yourself, before your cousin's influence raised up one for
you."
The Doctor, in the goodness of his heart, waved his hand as if to
make hght of it, and save Mr. Jack Maldon from any further re-
minder. But Mrs. Markleham changed her chair for one next the
Doctor's, and putting her fan on his coat-sleeve, said :
" No, really, my dear Doctor, you must excuse me if I appear to
dwell on this rather, because I feel so very strongly. I call it quite
my monomania, it is such a subject of mine. You are a blessing to
us. You really are a Boon, you know."
" Nonsense, nonsense," said the Doctor.
" No, no,. I beg your pardon," retorted the Old Soldier. " With
nobody present, but our dear and confidential friend Mr. Wickfield,
I cannot consent to be put down. I shrjl beg-in to assert the prin-
leges of a mother-in-law, if you go on like that, and scold you. I ara
perfectly honest and out-spoken. What I am saying, is what I said
when you fii-st overpowered me with surpiise — you remember how
surprised I was ? — by proposing for Annie. Not that there was any-
thing so very much out of the way, in the mere act of the proposal
— it would be ridiculous to say that ! — but because, you having
known her poor father, and having known her from a baby six
months old, I hadn't thought of you in such a light at all, or indeed
as a marrying man in any way, — simply that, you know."
" Aye, aye," returned the Doctor, good-humoredly. " Never
mind."
" But I do mind," said the Old Soldier, laying her fan upon his
lips. " I mind very much. I recal these things that I may be con-
tradicted if I am wrong. Well ! Then I spoke to Annie, and I told
her what had happened. I said, ' My dear, here's Doctor Strong has
positively been and made you the subject of a handsome declaration
and an offer.' Did I press it in the le;ist ? No. I said, ' Now,
Annie, tell me the truth this moment ; is your heart free V ' Mama,
286 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
she said, crying, * I am extremely young' — which was perfectly inie
— ' and I hardly know if I have a heart at all.' ' Then, my dear,' I
said, ' you may rely upon it, it's free.' 'At all events, my love,' said I,
* Doctor Strong is in an agitated state of mind, and must be answered.
He cannot be kept in his present state of suspense.' * Mama,' said
Annie, still crying, ' would he be unhappy without me ? If he would,
I honor and respect him so much, that I think I will have him.' So
it was settled. And then, and not till then, I said to Annie, ' Annie,
Doctor Strong will not only be your husband, but he will represent
your late father : he will represent the head of our family, he will
represent the wisdom and station, and I may say the means, of our
family ; and will be, in short, a Boon to it.' I used the word at the
time, and I have used it again, to-day. If I have any merit, it is
consistency."
The daughter had sat quite silent and still during this speech, with
her eyes fixed on the ground ; her cousin standing near her, and
looking on the ground too. She now said very softly, in a trembhng
voice :
" Mama, I hope you have finished ?"
" No, my dear Annie,'' returned the Soldier, " I have not quite
finished. Since you ask me, my love, I reply that I have 7iot. I
complain that you really are a httle unnatural towards your own
family ; and, as it is of no use complaining to you, I mean to com-
plain to your husband. Now, my dear Doctor, do look at that silly
wife of yours."
As the Doctor turned his kind face, with its smile of simplicity and
gentleness, towards her, she drooped her head more. I noticed that
Mr. Wickfiftld looked at her steadily.
" When I happened to say to that naughty thing, the other day,'*
pursued her mother, shaking her head and her fan at her, playfully,
" that there was a family circumstance she might mention to you — •
indeed, I think, was bound to mention — 'she said, that to mention it
was to ask a favor ; and that, as you were too generous, and as foi
her to ask was always to have, she wouldn't."
" Annie, my dear," said the Doctor. " That was wrong. It rob-
bed me of a pleasure."
" Almost the very words I said to her !" exclaimed her mother.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 287
** Now really, anotlier time, when I know what she would tell you
but for this reason, and won't, I have a great mind, my dear Doctor,
to tell you myself."
" I shall be glad if you will," retm-ned the Doctor.
"Shall I?"
"Certainly."
" Well, then, I will !" said the Old Soldier. "That's a bargain."
And having, I suj^pose, carried her point, she tapped the Doctor's
hand several times with her fan (which she kissed first), and return-
ed triumphantly to her former station.
Some more company coming in, among whom were the two mas-
ters and Adams, the talk became general; and it naturally turned
on Mr. Jack Maldon, and the voyage, and the country he was going
to, and his various plans and prospects. He was to leave that night,
after supper, in a postchaise, for Gravesend ; where the ship, in
which he was to make the voyage, lay ; and was to be gone — unless
he came home on leave, or for his health — I don't know how many
years. I recollect it was settled by general consent that India was
quite a misrepresented country, and had nothing objectionable in it,
but a tiger or two, and a little heat in the warm part of the day.
For my own part, I looked on Mr. Jack Maldon as a modern Sinbad,
and pictured him the bosom friend of all the Rajahs in the east, sit-
ting under canopies, smoking curly golden pipes — a mile long, if
they could be straightened out.
Mrs. Strong was a very pretty singer ; as I knew, who often heard
her singing by herself. But whether she was afiaid of singing be
fore people, or was out of voice that evening, it was certain that she
couldn't sing at all. She tried a duet, once, with her cousin Maldon,
but could not so much as begin ; and afterwards, when she tried to
sing by herself, although she began sweetly, her voice died away on
a sudden, and left her quite distressed, with her head hanging down
over the keys. The good Doctor said she was nervous, and, to re-
lieve her, proposed a round game at cards ; of which he knew as
much as of the art of playing the trombone. But I remarked that
the Old Soldier took him into custody directly, for her partner ; and
instructed him, as the fii'st j)relirainary of initiation, to give her all
the silver he had in his pocket.
288 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
We had a merry game, not made the less merry by the Doctor's
mistakes, of which he committed an innumerable quantity, in spite
of the watchfulness of the butterflies, and to their ffreat asfffravation.
Mrs. Strong had declined to play, on the ground of not feelmg very
well ; and her cousin Maldpn had excused himself because he had
some jDacking to do. When he had done it, however, he returned,
and they sat together, talking, on the sofa. From time to time she
came and looked over the Doctor's hand, and told him what to play.
She was very pale, as she bent over him, and I thought her finger
trembled as she pointed out the cards ; but the Doctor was quite
happy in her attention, and took no notice of this, if it were so.
At supper, we were hardly so gay. Every one appeared to feel
that a parting of that sort was an awkward thing, and that the
nearer it approached, the more awkward it was. Mr. Jack Maldou
tried to be very talkative, but was not at his ease, and made matters
worse. And they were not improved, as it appeared to me, by the Old
Soldier : who continually recalled passages of Mr. Jack Maldon's youth.
The Doctor, however, who felt, I am sure, that he was making
everybody happy, was well pleased, and had no suspicion, but that
we were all at tlie utmost height of enjoyment.
" Annie, my dear," said he, looking at his watch, and filHng his
glass, " it is past your cousin Jack's time, and we must not detain
him, since time and tide — both concerned in this case — wait for no
man. Mr. Jack Maldon, you have a long voyage, and a strange
country before you ; but many men have had both, and many men
will have both, to the end of time. The winds you are going to tempt,
have wafted thousands upon thousands to fortune, and brought thou-
sands upon thousands happily back."
" It is an affecting thing," said Mrs. Markleham — " however it's
viewed, it's affecting — to see a fine young man one has known from
an infant, going away to the other end of the world, leaving all he
knows behind, and not knowing what's before him. A young man
really well deserves constant support and patronage," looking at the
Doctor, " who makes such sacrifices."
" Time will go fast with you, Mr. Jack Maldon," pursued the Doc-
tor, " and fast with all of us. Some of us can hardly expect, per-
liaps, in the natural course of things, to greet you on your return.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 289
The next best thing is to hope to do it, and that's my case, I shall
not weary you with good advice. You have long had a good modc-l
before you, in your cousin Annie. Imiti.te her virtues as nearly as
you can."
Mrs. Markleham fanned herself, and shook her head.
" Farewell, Mr. Jack," said the Doctor, standing up ; on which we
all stood up. " A prosperous voyage out, a thriving career abroad,
and a happy return home !"
We all drank the toast, and all shook hands with Mr. Jack Maldon ;
after which he hastily took leave of the ladies who were there, and
hunied to the door, where he was received, as he got into the chaise,
with a tremendous broadside of cheers discharged by our boys, who
had assembled on the lawn for the pui'pose. Running in among
them to swell the ranks, I was very near the chaise when it rolled
away ; and I had a Hvely impression made upon me, in the midst
of the noise and dust, of having seen Mr. Jack Maldon rattle past
with an agitated face, and something cherry-colored in his hand.
After another broadside for the Doctor, and another for the Doc-
tor's \N-ife, the boys dispersed, and I went back into the house, where
I found the guests all standing in a group about the Doctor, dis-
cussing how Mr. Jack Maldon had gone away, and how he had
borne it, and how he had felt it, and all the rest of it. In the midst
of these remarks, Mrs. Markleham cried : " "VMiere's Annie ?"
No Annie was there ; and when they called to her, no Annie
repHed. But all pressing out of the room, in a crowd, to see what
was the matter, we found her lying on the hall floor. There
was great alarm at first, until it was found that she was in a swoon,
and that the swoon was yielding to the usual means of recovery ;
when the Doctor, who had lifted her head upon his knee, put her
curls aside with his hand, and said, looking around :
" Poor Annie ! She's so faithful and tender-hearted ! It's the
parting from her old playfellow and friend — her favorite cousin —
that has done this. Ah ! It's a pity ! I am very sorry !"
When she opened her eyes, and saw where she was, and that we
were all standing about her, she arose with a^y^istance : turning her
head, as she did so, to lay it on the Doctor's shoulder — or to hide
It, I don't know which. We went into the drawing-room, tc leave
18
290 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
her with the Doctor and her mother ; but she said, it seemed, that
she was better than she had been since morning, and tliat she would
rather be brought among us ; so they brought her in, looking very
white and weak, I thought, and sat her on a sofa.
" Annie, my dear," said her mother, doing something to her dress,
" See here ! You have lost a bow. Will any body be so good as
find a ribbon ; a cherry-colored ribbon ?"
It was the one she had worn at her bosom. We all looked for
it — I myself looked everywhere, I am certain — but nobody could
find it.
" Do you recollect where you had it last, Annie ?" said her mother.
I wondered how I could have thought she looked white, or any-
thing but burning red, when she answered that she had had it safe,
a little while ago, she thought, but it was not worth looking for.
Nevertheless, it was looked for again, and still not found. She
entreated that there might be no more searching ; but it was still
sought for, in a desultory way, until she was quite well, and the
company took their departure.
We walked very slowly home, Mr. Wickfield, Agnes, and I —
Agnes and I admiring the moonlight, and Mr. Wickfield scarcely
raising his eyes from the ground. When we, at last, reached our
own door, Agnes discovered that she had left her little reticule
behind. Delighted to be of any service to her, I ran back to fetch it.
I went into the supper-room, where it had been left, which w^is
deserted and dark. But a door- of communication between that and
the Doctor's study, where there was a light, being open, I passed on
there, to say what I wanted, and to get a candle.
The Doctor was sitting in his easy chair by the fireside, and his
f oung wife was on a stool at his feet. The Doctor, with a compla-
cent smile, was reading aloud some manuscript explanation or state-
ment of a theory out of that interminable Dictionary, and she was
looking up at him. But with such a face as I never saw. It was so
beautiful in its form, it was so ashy pale, it was so fixed in its
abstraction, it was so full of a wild, sleep-walking, dreamy horror of
I don't know what. The eyes were wide open, and her brown haii
fell in two rich clusters on her shoulders, and on her white dress,
disordered by the want of the lost ribbon, Distinctly 9s I recollect
I returu to the Doctor's after tliu Tuity.
LIBRARY
OF THE
L.;iVtaSITY OF ILUN i
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 291
her look, I cannot say of what it was expressive. I cannot even say
of what it is expressive to me now, rising again before my older
judgment. Penitence, humiliation, shame, pride, love, and trustful-
ness— I see them all ; and in them all, I see that horror of I don't
know what.
My entrance, and my saying what I wanted, roused her. It
disturbed the Doctor too, for when I went back to replace the candle
I had taken from the table, he was patting her head, in his fatherly
way, and sapng he was a merciless drone to let her tempt him into
reading on ; and he would have her go to bed.
But she asked him, in a rapid, urgent manner, to let her stay — to
let her feel assured (I heard her murmur some broken words to
this effect) that she was in his confidence that night. And, as she
turned again towards him, after glancing at me as I left the room
and went out at the door, I saw her cross her hands upon his knee,
and look up at him with the same face, something quieted, as he
resumed his reading.
It made a great impression on me, and I remembered it a long
time afterwards ; as I shall have occasion to narrate when the time
comes.
CHAPTER XVII.
SOMEBODY TURNS UP.
It has not occurred to me to mention Peggotty since I ran away;
but, of course, I wrote her a letter almost as soon as I was housed at
Dover, and another, and a longer letter, containing all particulars
fully related, when my aunt took me formally under her protection.
On my being settled at Doctor Strong's I wrote to her again, detailing
my happy condition and prospects. I never could have derived any
thing hke the pleasure from spending the money Mr. Dick had
given me, that I felt in sending a gold half-guin«'a to Peggotty, per
Dost, inclosed in this last letter, to discharge the sum I had borrowed
of her: in which epistle, not before, I mentioned 'about the young
mail with the donkey-cart.
292 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
To these communications Peggotty replied as promptly, if not as
concisely, as a merchant's clerk. Her utmost powers of expression
(which were certainly not great in ink) were exhausted in the attem[>t
to write what she felt on the subject of my journey. Four sides of
incoherent and interjection al beginnings of sentences, that had no
end, except blots, were inadequate to afford her any rehef. But the
blots were more expressive to me than the best composition, for they
showed me that Peggotty had been crying all over the paper, and
what could I have desired more ?
I made out, without much difficulty, that she could not take quite
kindly to my aunt yet. The notice w^as too short after so long a
prepossession the other way. We never knew a person, she wrote ;
but to think that Miss Betsey should seem to be so different from
what she had been thought to be, was a Moral ! — that was her word.
She was evidently still afraid of Miss Betsey, for she sent her grate-
ful duty to her but timidly ; and she was evidently afraid of me,
too, and entertained the probability of my running away again soon :
if I might judge fi'om the repeated hints she threw out, that the
coach-fare to Yarmouth was always to be had of her for the asking.
She gave me one piece of intelligence which affected me very
much, namely, that there had been a sale of the furniture at our old
home, and that Mr. and Miss Murdstone were gone away, and the
house was shut up, to be let or sold. God knows I had had no part in
it while they remained there, but it pained me to think of the dear
old place as altogether abandoned ; of the weeds growing tall in the
garden, and the fallen leaves lying thick and wet upon the paths.
I imaa'ined how the winds of winter would howl round it, how the
cold rain would beat upon the window-glass, how the moon would
make ghosts on the walls of the empty rooms, watching their soU-
tude all night. I thought afresh of the grave in the churchyard,
underneath the tree : and it seemed as if the house were dead too,
now, and all connected with my father and mother were faded away.
There was no other news in Peggotty's letter. Mr. Barkis was
an excellent husband, she said, though still a little near ; but we all
had our faults, and she had plenty (though I am sure I don't know
<vhat they were) ; and he sent his duty, and my little bedroom was
always ready for me. Mr. Peggotty was well, and Ham was well,
DAVID COrrEUFIELD. 293
and Mrs. Gummidge was but poorly, and little Em'ly wouldn't send
her love, but said that Peggotty might send it, if she liked.
All this intelligence I dutifully ini])arted to my aunt, only reserv-
ing to myself the mention of little Em'ly, to whom I instinctively
felt that she would not very tenderly incline. While I was yet new
at Doctor Strong's, she made several excursions over to Canterbury
to see me, and always at unseasonable hours : with the N-iew, I sup-
pose, of taking me by surprise. But, finding me well employed, and
bearing a good character, and hearing on all hands that I rose fast
in the school, she soon discontinued these visits. I saw her on a
Saturday, every third or fourth week, when I went over to Dover
for a treat ; and I saw Mr. Dick every alternate Wednesday, when
he arrived by stage-coach at noon, to stay until next morning.
On these occasions Mr. Dick never travelled without a leathern
writing-desk, containing a supply of stationery and the Memorial ;
in relation to which document he had a notion that time was begin
ning to press now, and that it really must be got out of hand.
Mr. Dick was very partial to gingerbread. To render his visits
the more agreeable, my aunt had instructed me to open a credit for
him at a cake-shop, which was hampered with the stipulation that
he should not be served with more than one shilling's-worth in the
course of any one day. This, and the reference of all his little bills
at the county inn where he slept, to my aunt, before they were paid,
induced me to suspect that he was only allowed to rattle his money,
and not to spend it. I found on further investigation that this was
so, or at least there was an agreement between him and my aunt
that he should account to her for all his disbursements. As he had
no idea of deceiving her, and always desired to please her, he was
thus made chary of launching into expense. On this point, as well
as on all other possible points, Mr. Dick was convinced that my aunt
was the wisest and most wonderful of women ; as he repeatedly told
me with infinite secresy, and always in a whisper.
" Trotwood," said Mr. Dick, with an air of mystery, after impart
ing this confidence to me, one Wednesday ; " who's the man that
hides near our house and iVitrhteus her ?"
" Frightens my aunt, sir ?"
Mr. Dick nodded. " I thought nothing would have friglitened
294 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
lier," he said, " for she's — " here he whispered softly, " don't men-
tion it — ^the wisest and most wonderful of women." Having said
which, he drew back, to observe the effect which this description of
her made upon me.
" The first time he came," said Mr. Dick, " was — let me see —
sixteen hundred and forty-nine was the date of King Charles's
execution. I think you said sixteen hundred and forty-nine ?"
"Yes, sir."
"I don't know how it can be," said Mr. Dick, sorely puzzled and
shaking his head. " I don't think I'm as old as that."
" Was it in that year that the man appeared, sir ?" I asked.
" Why, really," said Mr. Dick, " I don't see how it can have been
in that year, Ti-otwood. Do you get that date out of history ?"
"Yes, sir."
" I supjpose history never Hes, does it ?" said Mr. Dick, with a
gleam of hope.
" O dear, no, sir ! " I replied, most decisively. I was ingenuous
and young, and I thought so.
" I can't make it out," said Mr. Dick, shaking his head. " There's
something wrong, somewhere. However, it was very soon after the
mistake was made of putting some of the trouble out of King
Charles's head into my head, that the man first came. I was walk-
ing out with Miss Trotwood after tea, just at dark, and there he was,
close to our house."
" Walking about ?" I inquired.
" Walking about ? " repeated Mr. Dick. " Let me see. I must
recollect a bit. N — no, no ; he was not walking about."
I asked, as the shortest way to get at it, what he was doing.
" Well, he wasn't there at all," said Mr. Dick, " until he came up
behind her, and whispered. Then she turned round and fainted
and I stood still and looked at him, and he walked away ; but that
he should have been hiding ever since (in the ground or somewhere)
is the most extraordinary thing !"
" Has he been hiding ever since ?" I asked.
" To be sure he has," retorted Mr. Dick, nodding his head gravely
'* Never catne out, till last night ! We were walking last night, and
he came up behind her again, and I knew him again."
DAVID UOPPERFIELD. 295
" And did he fiighten my aunt again ?"
" All of a shiver," said Mr. Dick, counterfeiting that affection anc'
making his teeth chatter. " Held by the palings. Cried. But
Trotwood, come here," getting me close to him, that he might whis-
per very softly ; " why did she give him money, boy, in the moon-
hght ?"
" He w^as a beggar, perhaps."
Mr. Dick shook his head, as utterly renouncing the suggestion ;
and hanng replied a great many times, and with great confidence,
" No beggar, no beggar, no beggar, sir !" went on to say, that from
his window he had afterwards, and late at night, seen my aunt giv^f
this pei*son money outside the garden rails in the moonlight, who
then slunk away — into the ground again, as he thought probable —
and was seen no more ; while my aunt came hurriedly and secretly
back into the house, and had, even that morning, been quite dif-
ferent from her usual self : which preyed on Mr. Dick's mind.
I had not the least belief, in the outset of the story, that the un
known was anything but a delusion of Mr. Dick's, and one of the
line of that ill-fated Prince who occasioned him so much difficulty ;
but after some reflection I began to entertain' the question whether
an attempt, or threat of an attempt, might have been twice made to
take poor Mr. Dick himself from under my aunt's protection, and
whether my aunt, the strength of whose kind feeling towards him
I knew from herself, might have been induced to pay a price for
his peace and quiet. As I was already much attached to Mr. Dick,
and very solicitous for his welfare, my fears favored this supposition ;
and for a long time his Wednesday hardly ever came round, without
my entertaining a misgiving that he would not be on the coach-box
as usual. There he always appeared, however, grey-headed, laugh-
ing, and happy ; and he never had anything more to tell of the
man who could frighten my aunt.
These Wednesdays were the happiest days of Mr. Dick's life ;
they were far from being the least happy of mine. He soon
became known to every boy in the school ; and though he never
took an active part in any game but kite-flying, was as deejily in-
terested in all our sports as any one among us. How often have I
seen him, intent upon a match at marbles or pegtop, looking on
296 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
with a face of unutterable interest, and hardly breathing at the
critical times ! How often, at hare and hounds, have I seen him
mounted on a little knoll, cheering the whole field on to action, and
waving his hat above his grey head, oblivious of King Charles the
Martyr's head, and all belonging to it ! How many a summer-hoiu*
have I known to be but bhssful minutes to him in the cricket-field !
How many winter days have I seen him, standing blue-nosed in the
snow and east wind, looking at the boys going dovm the long shde,
and clapping his worsted gloves in rapture !
He was an universal favorite, and his ingenuity in little things
was transcendant. He could cut oranges into such devices as none of
us had an idea of He could make a boat out of anything, fi-om a
skewer upwards. He could turn crampbones into chessmen ;
fashion Roman chariots from old court cards ; make spoked wheels
out of cotton reels, and birdcages of old wire. But he was greatest
of all, perhaps, in the articles of string and straw ; with which
we were all persuaded he could do anything that could be done by
hands.
Mr. Dick's renown was not long confined to us. After a few
"Wednesdays, Doctor Strong himself made some inquiries of me
about him, and I told him all my aimt had told me ; which inter-
ested the Doctor so much that he requested, on the occasion of his
next \isit, to be presented to him. This ceremony I performed ; and
the Doctor begging Mr. Dick, whensoever he should not find me at
the coach-office, to come on there, and rest himself until our morn-
ing's work was over, it soon passed into a custom for Mr. Dick to
come on as a matter of course, and, if we were a little late, as
often happened on a Wednesday, to walk about the court-yard,
waiting for me. Here he made the acquaintance of the Doctor's
beautiful young wife (paler than formerly, all this time ; more rarely
seen by me or any one, I think ; and not so gay but not less beau-
tiful), and so became more and more familiar by degrees, until, at
last, he would come into the school and wait. He always sat in a
particular corner, on a particular stool, which was called " Dick,"
after him ; here he would sit, with his grey head bent forward,
attentively listening to whatever might be going on, ^vith a pro-
found veneration for the learnino; he had never been able to ac-
quire.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 297
This veneration Mr. Dick extended to the Doctor, whom he
thought the most subtle and accomphshed philosopher of any age.
It was long before Mr. Dick ever spoke to him otherwise than bare-
headed ; and even when he and the Doctor had struck up quite a
friendship, and would walk together by the hour, on that side of the
court-yard which was known among us as The Doctor's Walk, Mr.
Dick would pull off his hat at intervals to show his respect for wis-
dom and knowledfje. How it ever came about, that the Doctor befjan
to read out scraps of the famous Dictionary, in these walks, I never
knew ; perhaps he felt it all the same, at first, as reading to himself.
However, it passed into a custom too ; and Mr. Dick, hstening
with a face shining with pride and pleasure, in his heart of
hearts believed the Dictionary to be the most delightful book in
the world.
As I think of them goino; up and down before those school-room
windows — the Doctor reading with his complacent smile, an occa-
sional flourish of the manuscript, or grave motion of his head ; and
Mr. Dick hstening, enchained by interest, with his poor wits calmly
wandering God knows where, upon the wings of hard words — I
think of it as one of the pleasantest thing's, in a quiet way, that I
have ever seen. I feel as if they might go walking to and fro for
ever, and the world might somehow be the bettei for it — as if a
thousand things it makes a noise about, were not one-half so good
for it, or me.
Agnes was one of Mr. Dick's friends, very soon ; and in often
coming to the house, he made acquaintance with Uriah. The
friendship between himself and me increased continually, and it was
maintained on this odd footing : that, while Mr. Dick came profes-
sedly to look after me as my guardian, he always consulted me in
any little matter of doubt that arose, and invariably guided himself
by my advice ; not only liaN-ing a high respect for my native
sagacity, but considering that I had inherited a good deal from my
aunt.
One Tliursday morning, when I was about to walk with Mr. Dick
from the hotel to the coach-office before going back to school (for
we had an hour's school before breakfiist), I met Uriah in the street,
who reminded me of the promise I had made to take tea with
298 DAVID COrPERFIELD.
himself and his mother : adding, with a writhe, " But I diduH
expect you to keep it, Master Copperfield, we're so very unible."
I really had not yet been able to make up my mind whether 1
hked Uriah or detested him ; and I was ver}'^ doubtful about it still,
as I stood looking him in the face in the street. But I felt it quite
an affront to be supposed proud, and said I only wanted to be
asked.
" Oh, if that's all. Master Coppei-field," said Uriah, " and it really
isn't our umbleness that prevents you, will you come this evening ?
But if it is our umbleness, I hope you won't mind owning to it,
Master Copperfield ; for we are well aware of our condition."
I said I would mention it to Mr. Wickfield, and if he approved,
as I had no doubt he would, I would come with pleasure. So, at
six o'clock that evening, which was one of the early office evenings,
I announced myself as ready, to Uriah.
" Mother will be proud indeed," he said, as we walked away
together. " Or she would be proud, if it wasn't sinful, Master
Copperfield."
" Yet you didn't mind supposing / was proud this morning," I
returned.
" Oh dear no, Master Copperfield ! " returned Uriah. " Oh,
believe me, no ! Such a thought never came into my head ! I
shouldn't have deemed it at all proud if you had thought us too
umble for you. Because we are so very umble."
" Have you been studying much law lately ? " I asked, to change
the subject.
" Oh, Master Copperfield," he said, with an air of self-denial,
" my reading is hardly to be called study. I have passed an hour
or two in the evening, sometimes, with Mr. Tidd."
" Rather hard, I suppose ? " said I.
" He is hard to me sometimes," returned Uriah. " But I don't
know what he might be, to a gifted person."
After beating a little tune on his chin as we walked on, with the
two fore-fingers of his skeleton right hand, he added :
" There are expressions, you see. Master Copperfield — Latin
Vrords and terms — in Mr. I'idd, that are trying to a reader of my
umblo attainments."
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 299
** Would you like to be taught Latin ? " I said, briskly. " I will
teach it you with pleasure, as I learn it."
" Oh, thank you, Master Coppei*field," he answered, shaking his
head. " I am sure it's very kind of you to make the offer, but I
am much too umble to accept it."
" What nonsense, Uriah !"
" Oh, indeed you must excuse me. Master Copperfield ! I am
greatly obliged, and I should like it of all things, I assure you ; but
I am far too umble. There are people enough to tread upon me in
my lowly state, without my doing outrage to their feelings by pos-
sessing learning. Learning ain't for me. A person like myself
had better not aspire. If he is to get on in hfe, he must get on
umbly. Master Copperfield."
I never saw his mouth so wide, or the creases in his cheeks so
deep, as when he delivered himself of these sentiments ; shaking his
head all the time, and writhing modestly.
" I think you are wrong, Uriah," I said. " I dare say there
are several things that I could teach you, if you would like to learn
them."
" Oh, I don't doubt that. Master Copperfield," he answered ; " not
in the least. But not being umble yourself, you don't judge well,
perhaps, for them that are. I won't provoke my betters with know-
ledge, thank you. I'm much too umble. Here is my umble dwell-
ing. Master Copperfield !"
We entered a low, old-fashioned room, walked straight into from
the street, and found there, Mrs. Heep, who was the dead image of
Uriah, only short. She received me with the utmost humility, and
apologised to me for giving her son a kiss, observing that, lowly as
they were, they had their natural affections, which they hoped
would give no offence to any one. It was a perfectly decent room,
half parlor and half kitchen, but not at all a snug room. The tea-
things were set upon the table, and the kettle was boiling on the
hob. There was a chest of drawers with an escrutoire top, for Uriah
to read or write at of an evening ; there was Uriah's blue bag lying
down and vomiting papei-s ; there was a company of Uriah's books,
commanded by Mr. Tidd ; there was a corner cupboard ; and there
were the usual articles of furniture. I don't remember that any in-
800 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
dividual object had a bare, pinched, spare look ; but I do remembtr
that the whole place had.
It was perhaps a part of Mrs. Heep's humihty, that she still wore
weeds. Notwithstanding the lapse of time that had occurred since
Mr. Heep's decease, she still wore weeds. I think there was some
compromise in the cap ; but otherwise she was as weedy as in the
early days of her mourning.
" This is a day to be remembered, my Uriah, I am sure," said
Mrs. Heep, making the tea, " when Master Copperfield pays us a
visit."
" I said you 'd think so, mother," said Uriah.
" If I could have wished father to remain among us for any rea-
son," said Mrs. Heep, " it would have been, that he might have
known his company this afternoon."
I felt embarrassed by these compHments ; but I was sensible, too,
of being entertained as an honored guest, and I thought Mrs. Heep
an agreeable woman.
" My Uriah," said Mrs. Heep, " has looked forward to this, sir, a
long while. He had his fears that our umbleness stood in the way,
and I joined in them myself. Umble we are, umble we have been,
umble we shall ever be," said Mrs. Heep.
" I am sure you have no occasion to be so, ma'am," I said,
" unless you like."
'• Thank you, sir," retorted Mrs. Heep. " We know our station
and are thankful in it."
I found that Mrs. Heep gradually got nearer to me, and that
Uriah gradually got opposite to me, and that they respectfully plied
me with the choicest of the eatables on the table. There was
nothing particularly choice there, to be sure ; but I took the will for
the deed, and felt that they were very attentive. Presently they
began to talk about aunts, and then I told them about mine ; and
about fathers and mothers, and then I told them about mine ; and
then Mrs. Heep began to talk about fathers-in-law, and then I began
to tell her about mine — but stopped, because my aunt had advised
me to observe a silence on that subject. A tender young cork,
however, would have had no more chance against a pair of cork
screws, or a tender young tooth against a pair of dentists, or a little
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 801
shuttlecock against two battledores, than I had against Uriah and
Mrs. Heep. They did just what they liked with me ; and wonned
things out of me that I had no desire to tell, with a certainty I
blush to think of: the more especially as, in my juvenile frankness,
I took some credit to myself for being so confidential, and felt that I
was quite the patron of my two respectful entertainers.
They were very fond of one another : that was certain. I take it
that had its effect upon me, as a touch of nature ; but the skill with
which the one followed up whatever the other said, was a touch of art
which I was still less proof against. When there was nothing more
to be got out of me about myself (for on the Murdstone and Grinby
life, and on my journey, I was dumb), they began about Mr. Wick-
field and Agnes. Uriah threw the ball to Mrs. Heep, Mi-s. Heep
caught it and threw it back to Uriah, Uriah kept it up a little while,
then sent it back to Mrs. Heep, and so they went on tossing it about
until I had no idea who had got it, and was quite bewildered. The
ball itself was always changing too. Now it was Mr. Wickfield, now
Agnes, now the excellence of Mr. Wickfield, now my admiration of
Agnes ; now the extent of Mr. Wickfield's business and resources
now our domestic hfe after dinner ; now the wine that Mr. Wick
field took, the reason why he took it, and the pity that it was he
took so much ; now one thing, now another, then every thing at
once ; and all the time, without appearing to speak very often, or to
do anything but sometimes encourage them a little, for fear they
should be overcome by their humility and the honor of my com-
pany, I found myself perpetually letting out something or othei: that
I had no business to let out, and seeing the effect of it in the twink-
hng of Uriah's dinted nostrils.
I had begun to be a little uncomfortable, and to wish myself well
out of the visit, when a figure coming down the street passed the
door — it stood open to air the room, which was warm, the weather
being close for the time of year — came back again, looked in, and
walked in, exclaiming loudly, " Coppei-field ! Is it possible ?"
It was Mr. Micawber ! It was Mr. Micawber, with his eye-glass,
and his walking-stick, and his shirt-collar, and his genteel air, and
the condescending roll in his voice, all complete !
" My dear Copperlield," said Mr. Micawber, putting out his hand.
302 D A V T J) C 0 P P E R F I E L D .
" ttik is indeed a meeting wTiicii is calculated to impress the mind
with a sense of the instability and uncertainty of all human — in
short, it is a most extraordinary meeting. Walking along the
street, reflecting upon the probability of something turning up (oi
which I am at present rather sanguine), I find a young, but valued
friend turn up, who is connected with the most eventful period of my
life ; I may say, with the turning point of my existence. Copperfield,
my dear fellow, how do you do ?"
I cannot say — I really cnunot say — that I was glad to see Mr.
Micawber there ; but I was glad to see him too, and shook hands
with him heartily, inquiring how Mrs. Micawber was.
" Thank you," said Mr. Micawber, waving his hand as of old, and
settling his chin in his shirt-collar. " She is tolerably convalescent.
The twins no lono-er derive their sustenance from Nature's founts —
in short," said Mr. Micawber, in one of his bursts of confidence,
" they are weaned — and Mrs. Micawber is, at present, my travelling
companion. She will be rejoiced, Copperfield, to renew her acquaint-
ance with one who has proved himself in all respects a worthy
minister at the sacred altar of friendship."
I said I should be dehghted to see her.
" You are very good," 5aid Mr. Micawber.
Mr. Micawber then smiled, settled his chin again, and looked
about him.
" I have discovered my friend Copperfield," said Mr. Micawber
genteelly, and without addressing himself particularly to any one,
" not in solitude, but partaking of a social meal in company with a
widow lady, and one who is apparently her offspring — in short," said
Mr. Micawber, in another of his bursts of confidence, "her son. I
shall esteem it an honor to be presented."
I could do no less, under these circumstances, than make Mr.
Micawber known to Uriah Heep and his mother ; which I accord-
ingly did. As they abased themselves before him, Mr. Micawber
took a seat, and waved his hand in his most courtly manner.
" Any friend of my friend Copperfield's," said Mr. Micawber, " has
a personal claim upon myself."
" We are too umble, sir," said Mrs. Heep, " my son and me, to be
the friends of Master Copperfield. He has been so good as to take
lwhary
I "-„.£F THE
fffS/TK or
iLLm /,.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 808
his tea with lis, and we are thankful to him for his comp.inj : alsf
to you, sir, for your notice."
"Ma'am," returned Mr. Micawber, with a }x)»v, "you are very
ol)]iging : and what are you doing, Copperlield ? Still in the wino
trade ?"
I was excessively anxious to get Mr. Micawber away ; and replied,
w".th my hat in my hand, and a very red face I have no doubt, that
I was a pupil at Dr. Strong's.
" A pupil f said Mr. Micawber, raising his eyebrows. " I am
extremely happy to hear it. Although a mind hke my friend Cop-
perfield's," — to Uriah and Mrs. Heep — " does not require that culti-
vation which, without his knowledfjfe of men and tliinop, it would
require, still it is a rich soil teeming with latent vegetation — in
short," said Mr. Micawber, smiling, in another burst of confidence,
" it is an intellect capable of getting up the classics to any extent."
Uriah, ^vith his long hands slowly twining over one another, made
a ghastly writhe from the waist upwards, to express his concurrence
in this estimation of me.
" Shall we go and see Mrs. Micawber, sir ?" I said, to get Mr.
Micawber away.
" If you will do her that favor, Copperfield," replied Mr. Micaw-
ber, rising. " I have no scruple in saying, in the presence of our
friends here, that I am a man who has, for some years, contended
against the pressure of pecuniary difficulties." I knew he was cer-
tain to say something of this kind ; he always w^ould be so boastful
about his difficulties. " Sometimes I have risen superior to my difficul-
ties. Sometimes my difficulties have — in short, have floored me.
There have been times when I have administered a succession of
facers to them ; there have been times when they have been too
man}'^ for me, and I have given in, and said to Mi-s. Micawber in the
words of Cato, ' Plato, thou reasonest well. It's all up now. I can
show fio;ht no more.' But at no time of mv life," said Mr. Micaw-
ber, " have I enjoyed a higher degree of satisfaction than in pouring
my griefs (if T may descril)e difficulties chiefly arising out of warrants
of attorney and promissory notes at two and four months, by that
word) into the bosom of my friend Copperfield."
Mr. Micawber closed this handsome tribute by saying, " Mr. Heep 1
Good evening. Mrs. Heep ! Your servant," and then walking out
804 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
with me in his most fashionable, mannei*, making a good deal of
noise on the pavement with his shoes, and humming a tune as we
went.
It was a little inn where Mr. Micawber put up, and he occupied a
httle room in it, partitioned off from the commercial room, and
strongly flavored with tobacco smoke. I think it was over the
kitchen, because a warm greasy smell appeared to come up through
the chinks in the floor, and there was a flabby perspiration on the
walls. I know it was near the bar, on account of the smell of spirits
and jingling of glasses. Here, recumbent on a small sofa, under-
neath a picture of a race-horse, with her head close to the fire, and
her feet pushing the mustard off the dumb-waiter at the other end
of the room, was Mrs. Micawber, to whom Mr. Micawber entered
first, saying, " My dear, allow me to introduce to you a pupil of
Doctor Strong's."
I noticed, by-the-by, that although Mr. Micawber was just as much
confused as ever about my age and standing, he always remembered,
as a genteel thing, that I was a pupil of Doctor Strong's.
Mrs. Micawber was amazed, but very glad to see me. I was
very glad to see her too, and after an affectionate greeting on both
sides, sat down on the small sofa near her.
" My dear," said Mr. Micawber, " if you will mention to Copper-
field what our present position is, which I have no doubt he will hke
to know, I will go and look at the paper the while, and see whether
anything turns up among the advertisements."
" I thought you were at Plymouth, ma'am," I said to Mrs. iMicaw-
ber, as he went out.
" My dear Master Copperfield," she replied, " we went to Ply-
mouth."
" To be on the spot," I hinted.
*' Just so," said Mrs. Micawber. " To be on the spot. But, the
truth is, talent is not wanted in the Custom House. The local
influence of my family was quite unavailing to obtain any employ-
ment in that department, for a man of Mr. Micawber's abilities.
They would rather not have a man of Mr. Micawber's abilities. He
would only show the deficiency of the others. Apart fi-om which,'*
said Mrs. Micawber, " I will not disguise fi'om you, my dear Master
Copperfield, that when that branch of my family which is settled in
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 805
Plyiioiith became aware that Mr. Micawber was accompanied by
myself, and by little Wilkins and his sister, and by the twins, they
did not receive him with that ardor which he might have expected,
being so newly released from captivity. In fact," said Mi-s. Micaw-
ber, lowering her voice, — " this is between ourselves — our reception
was cooi"
" Dear me !" I said.
" Yes," said Mrs. Micawber. " It is truly painful to contemplate
mankind in such an aspect. Master Coppei-field, but our reception
W[is decidedly cool. There is no doubt about it. In fact, that
branch of my family which is settled in Plymouth became quite
personal to Mr. Micawber, before we had been there a week."
I said, and thought, that they ought to be ashamed of them-
selves.
" Still, so it was," continued Mrs. Micawber. " Under such cir-
cumstances, what could a man of Mr. Micawber's spirit do ? But
one obvious course was left. To borrow, of that branch of my fa-
mily, the money to retm-n to London, and to return at any sacri-
fice."
" Then you all came back again, ma'am ?" I said.
" We all came back again," replied Mrs. Micawber. " Since then,
I have consulted other branches of my family on the course which
it is most expedient for Mr. Micawber to take — for I maintain that
he must take some course, Master Copperfield," said Mr. Micawber,
argumentatively. " It is clear that a family of six, not including a
domestic, cannot live upon air."
" Certainly, ma'am," said I.
" The opinion of those other branches of my family," pursued
Mrs. Micawber, " is, that Mr. Micawber should immediately turn Ins
attention to coals."
" To what, ma'am ?"
" To coals," said Mrs. Micawber. " To the coal trade. Mr. ^li-
cawber was induced to think, on inquiry, that there might be an
opening for a man of his talent in the Medway Coal Trade. Then,
as Mr. Micawber very properly said, tlie first step to be taken clearly
was, to come and see the Medway. Which we came and saw. J
say * we,' Master Copperfield ; for I never will," said Mrs. Micawber
with emotion, " I never will desert Mr. Micawber."
19
806 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
I murmured mj admiration and approbation.
" We came," repeated Mrs Micawber, " and saw the Medway.
My opinion of the coal trade on that river is, that it may require ta-
lent, but that it certainly requires capital. Talent, Mr. Micawber
has ; capital, Mr. Micawber has not. We saw, I think, the greater
part of the Medway ; and that is my individual concliLsion. ^ Being
so near here, Mr. Micawber was of opinion that it would be rash not
to come on, and see the Cathedral. Firstly, on account of its being
so well worth seeing, and our never having seen it ; and secondly,
on account of the great probabihty of something turning up in a
cathedral town. We have been here," said Mrs. Micawber, " three
days. Nothing has, as yet, turned up ; and it may not surprise
you, my dear Master Copperfield, so much as it would a stranger, to
know that we are at present waiting for a remittance from London,
to discharge our pecuniary obligations at this hotel. Until the arri-
val of that remittance," said Mrs. Micawber, with much feeling, " I
am cut off fi'om my home (I allude to lodgings in Pentonville), fi-om
my boy and girl, and from my twins."
I felt the utmost sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Micawber in this
anxious extremity, and said as much to Mr. Micawber, who now re-
turned : adding that I only wished I had money enough, to lend
them the amount they needed. Mr. Micawber's answer expressed
the disturbance of his mind. He said, shaking hands with me,
" Copperfield, you are a true friend ; but when the worst comes to
the worst, no man is without a friend who is possessed of sha\ang
materials." At this dreadful hint, Mrs. Micawber threw her arms
around Mr. Micawber's neck and entreated, him to be calm. He
wept ; but so far recovered, almost immediately, as to ring the bell
for the waiter, and bespeak a hot kidney pudding and a plate of
shrimps for breakfast in the morning.
When I took my leave of them, they both pressed me so much
\o come and dine before they went away, that I could not refuse.
3ut, as I knew I could not come next day, when I should have a
rood deal to prepare in the evening, Mr. Micawber arranged that he
A'ould call at Doctor Strong's in the course of the morning (having
^ presentiment that the remittance would arrive by that pcet), and
propose the day after, if it would suit me better. Accordingly I
was called out of school next forenoon, and found Mr. Micawber
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 807
in the parlor ; who had called to say that the dinner would take
place as proposed. "When I asked him if the remittance had come,
he pressed my hand and departed.
As I was looking out of window that same evening, it surprised
me, and made me rather uneasy, to see Mr. Micawber and Uriah
Heep walk past, arm in arm : Uriah humbly sensible of the j^nor
that was done him, and Mr. Micawber taking a bland delight in ex-
tending his patronage to Uriah. But I was still more surprised^
when I went to the little hotel next day at the appointed dinner hour,
which was four o'clock, to find, from what Mr. Micawber said, that
he had gone home with Uriah, and had drunk brandy -and- water at
Mrs. Heep's.
" And I'll tell you what, my dear Copperfield," said Mr. Micaw-
ber, " your friend Heep is a young fellow who might be attorney-
general. If I had known that young man, at the period when my
difficulties came to a crisis, all I can say is, that I believe my cre-
ditors would have been a great deal better managed than they
were."
I hardly understood how this could have been, seeing that Mr.
Micawber had paid them nothing at all as it was ; but I did not
Uke to ask. Neither did I hke to say, that I hoped he had not
been too communicative to Uriah ; or to inquire if they had talked
much about me. I was afraid of hurting Mr. Micawber's feehngs,
or, at all events, Mrs. Micawber's, she being very sensitive ; but I
was uncomfortable about it, too, and often thought about it after-
wards.
We had a beautiful little dinner. Quite an elegant dish of fish ;
the kidney-end of a loin of veal, roasted ; fried sausage-meat ; a
partridge, and a pudding. There was wine, and there was strong
ale ; and after dinner Mrs. Micawber made us a bowl of hot punch
with her own hands.
Mr. Micawber was uncommonly convivial. I never saw him such
good company. He made his face shine VNith the punch, so that it
looked as if it had been varnished all over. He got cheerfully
sentimental about the town, and proposed success to it ; observ-
ing, that Mrs. Micawber and himself had been extremely snug and
comfortable there, and that he never should forget the agreeable
hours they had passed in Canterbury. He proposed me afterwards ;
DAVID COPPERFIELD.
and he, and Mrs. Micawber, and I, took a re\dew of our past ac*
'^uaintance, in the course of which we sold the property all over
again. Then I proposed Mrs. Micawber ; or, at least, said modestly,
" K you'll allow me, Mrs. Micawber, I shall now have the pleasure
of dfinking y(mr health, ma'am." On which Mr. Micawber delivered
an^logium on Mrs. Micawber's character, and said that she had
ever been his guide, philosopher, and friend, and he would re-
commend me, when I came to a marrying time of hfe, to marry
such another woman, if such another woman could be found.
As the punch disappeared, Mr. Micawber became still more
friendly and convivial. Mrs. Micawber's spirits becoming elevated,
too, we sang " Auld Lang Syne." Wlien we came to " Here 's a
hand, my trusty frere," we all joined hands round the table ; and
when we declared we would " take a right gude Willie Waught,"
and hadn't the least idea what it meant, we were really affected.
In a word, I never saw any body so thoroughly jovial as Mr,
Micawber was, down to the very last moment of the evening, when
I took a hearty farewell of himself and his amiable wife. Conse-
quently, I was not prepared, at seven o'clock next morning, to receive
the following communication, dated half-past nine in the evening ; a
quarter of an hour after I had left him.
" My dear Young Friend,
" The die is cast — all is over. Hiding the ravages of care
with a sickly mask of mirth, I have not informed you, this evening,
that there is no hope of the remittance ! Under these circumstances,
alike humiliating to endure, humiliating to contemplate, and humi-
liating to relate, I have discharged the pecuniary liability contracted
at this establishment, by giving a note of hand, made payable four-
teen days after date, at my residence, Pentonville, London. When
it becomes due, it will not be taken up. The result is destruction.
The bolt is impending, and the tree must fall.
" Let the wretched man who now addresses you, my dear Copper-
field, be a beacon to you through life. He writes with that inten-
tion, and in that hope. If he could think himself of so much use,
one gleam of day might, by possibilit}?^, penetrate into the cheerless
dungeon of his remaining existence — though his longevity is, at
present (to say the least of it), extremely problematical.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 309
" This is the last communication, my dear Copperfield, you will
ever receive " From ^
"The ▼
" Beggared Outcast,
" WiLKINS MlCAWBB^"
I was so shocked by the contents of this heart-rending letter,"that
1 ran off directly towards the little hotel with the intention of taking
it on my way to Doctor Strong's, and trying to soothe Mr. Micaw-
bcir with a word of comfort. But, half-way there, I met the London
coach with Mr. and Mre. Micawber up behind ; Mr. Micawber, the
very picture of tranquil enjoyment, smiling at Mrs. Micawber's con-
versation, eating w^ilnuts out of a paper bag, with a bottle sticking
out of his breast pocket. As they did not see me, I thought it be.st,
all thing's considered, not to see them. So, with a great weight
taken off my mind, I turned into a by-street that was the nearest
way to school, and felt, upon the whole, reheved that they were
gone ; though I still liked them very much, nevertheless.
CHAPTER XYIII.
A RETROSPECT.
My school-days ! The silent gliding on of my existence — the un-
seen, unfelt progress of my life — from childhood up to youth ! Let
me think, as I look back upon that flowing water, now a dry channel
overgrown with leaves, whether there are any marks along its
course, by which I can remember how it ran.
A moment, and I occupy my place in the Cathedral, where we
all went together, every Sunday morning, assembling first at school
for that purpose. The earthy smell, the sunless air, the sensation of
the world being shut out, the resounding of the organ through the
black and white arched galleries and aisles, are wings that take me
back, and hold me hovering above those days, in a half-sleeping and
half-wakingr dream.
I am not the last boy in the school. I have risen, in a few
310 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
months, over several heads. But the first boy seems to me a mighty
creature, dwelling afar off, whose giddy height is unattamable.
Agnes says " No," but I say " Yes," and tell her that she httle thinks
what stores of knowledge have been mastered by the wonderful
Being, at whose place she thinks I, even I, weak aspirant, may arrive
in tfeie. He is not my private friend and public patron, as Steer-
forth was, but I hold him in a reverential respect. I chiefly wonder
what he'll be, when he leaves Doctor Strong's, and what mankind
will do to maintain any place against him.
But who is this that breaks upon me ? This is Miss Shepherd,
whom I love.
Miss Shepherd is a boarder at the Misses Nettingalls' estabhsh-
ment. I adore Miss Shepherd. She is a little girl, in a spencer,
with a round face and curly flaxen hair. The Misses Nettingalls'
young ladies come to the Cathedral too. I cannot look upon my
book, for I must look upon Miss Shepherd. When the choristers
chaunt, I hear Miss Shepherd. In the service I mentally insert
Miss Shepherd's name — I put her in among the Royal Family. At
home, in my own room, I am sometimes moved to cry out, " Oh,
Miss Shepherd ! " in a transport of love.
For some time, I am doubtful of Miss Shepherd's feehngs, but, at
length, Fate being propitious, we meet at the dancing-school. I
have Miss Shepherd for my partner. I touch Miss Shepherd's glove,
and feel a thrill go up the right arm of my jacket, and come out at
my hair. I say nothing tender to Miss Shepherd, but we under-
stand each other. Miss Shepherd and myself live but to be united.
Why do I secretly give Miss Shepherd twelve Brazil nuts for a
present, I wonder? They are not expressive of affection, they are
difficult to pack into a parcel of any regular shape, they are hard to
crack, even in room doors, and they are oily when cracked ; yet I
feel that they are appropriate to Miss Shepherd. Soft, seedy bis-
cuits, also, I bestow upon Miss Shepherd ; and oranges innumerable.
Once, I kiss Miss Shepherd in the cloak room. Ecstacy ! What
are my agony and indignation next day, when I hear a flying
rumour that the Misses Nettingall have stood Miss Shepherd in the
stocks for turning in her toes !
Miss Shepherd being the one pervading theme and vision of my
life, how do I e\er come to break with her ? . I can't conceive. And
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 811
yet a coolness grows between Miss Shepherd and myself. Whis-
pers reach me of Miss Shei)herd having said she wished I wouldn't
stare so, and having avowed a preference for Master Jones — for
Jones ! a boy of no merit whatever ! The gulf between me and
Miss Shepherd widens. At last, one day, I meet the Misses Nettin-
galls' establishment out walking. Miss Shepherd makes a face as
she goes by, and laughs to her companion. All is over. The
devotion of a life — it seems a life, it is all the same — ^is at an end ;
Miss Shepherd comes out of the morning service, and the Royal
Family know her no more.
I am higher in the school, and no one breaks my peace. I am
not at all pohte now, to the Misses Nettingalls' young ladies, and
shouldn't dote on any of them, if they were twice as many and
twenty times as beautifid. I think the dancing-school a tiresome
affair, and wonder why the girls can't dance by themselves and leave
us alone. I am gl•o^^^ng great in Latin verses, and neglect the
laces-of my boots. Doctor Strong refers to me in public as a pro-
mising young scholar. Mr. Dick is wild with joy, and my aunt
remits me a guinea by the next post.
The shade of a young butcher rises, like the apparition of an
armed head in Macbeth. Who is this young butcher ? He is the
terror of the youth of Canterbury. There is a vague belief abroad,
that the beef suet with whicli he anoints his hair mves him unnatural
strength, and that he is a match for a man. He "« a broad-faced,
bull-necked young butcher, with rough red cheeks, an ill-conditioned
mind, and an injurious tongue. Hjs main use of this tongue, is, to
disparage Doctor Strong's young gentlemen. He says, publicly, that
ff they want anything he'll give it 'em. He names individuals
nmong them (myself included), whom he could undertake to settle
with one hand, and the other tied behind him. He w^aylays the
smaller boys to punch their unprotected heads, and calls challenges
after me in the open streets. For these sufficient reasons I resolve
to fight the butcher.
It is a summer evening, down in a green hollow, at the corner of
a wall. I meet the butcher by appointment. I am attended by a
select body of our boys ; the butcher, by two other butchers, a
young pubhcan, and a sweep. The preliminaries are adjusted, mid
312 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
the butcher and myself stand face to face. In a moment the
butcher lights ten thousand candles out of my left eyebrow. In
another moment, I don't know where the wall is, or where I am, or
where anybody is. I hardly know which is myself and which the
bijtcher, we are always in such a tangle and tustle, knocking abc-ut
upon the trodden grass. Sometimes I see the butcher, bloody but
confident ; sometimes I see nothing, and sit gasping on my second's
knee ; sometimes I go in at the butcher madly, and cut my knuckles
open against his face, without appearing to discompose him at all.
At last I awake, very queer about the head, as from a giddy sleep,
and see the butcher walking off, congratulated by the two other
butchers and the sweep and publican, and putting on his coat as he
goes ; from which I augur, justly, that the \'ictory is his.
I am taken home in a sad plight, and I have beef-steaks put to
my eyes, and am rubbed with vinegar and brandy, and find a great
white puffy place bursting out on my upper hp, which swells im-
moderately. For three or four days I remain at home, a very ill-
looking subject, with a green shade over my eyes ; and I should be
very dull, but that Agnes is a sister to me, and condoles with me,
and reads to me, and makes the time light and happy. Agnes has
my confidence completely, always ; I tell her all about the butcher,
and the wrongs he has heaped upon me ; and she thinks I couldn't
have done otherwise than fight the butcher, while she shrinks and
trembles at my ha^^ng fought him.
Time has stolen on unobserved, for Adams is not the head-boy in
the days that are come now, nor has he been this many and many a
day. Adams has left the school so long, that when he comes back,
on a visit to Doctor Strong, there are not many there, besides myself,
who know him. Adams is going to be called to the bar almost
directly, and is to be an advocate, and to wear a wig. I am sur-
prised to find him a meeker man than I had thought, and less Im-
posing in ajDpearance. He has not staggered the world yet, either ;
for it goes on (as well as I can make out) pretty much the same as
if he had never joined it.
A blank, through which the warriors of poetry and history march
on in stately hosts that seem to have no end — and what comes next I
I am the head boy, now ; and look down on the hne of boys below
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 3 3
me, with a condescending interest in such of them as bring to my
mind the boy I was myself, when I first came there. That httle
fellow seems to be no part of me ; I remember him as something
left behind upon the road of life — as something I have passed, rather
than have actually been — and almost think of him as of some one
else.
And the little girl I saw on that first day at Mr. Wickfield's,
where is she ? Gone also. In her stead, the perfect likeness of the
picture, a child likeness no more, moves about the house ; and
Agnes — my sweet sister, as I call her in my thoughts, my counsellor
and Iriend, the better angel of the li\es of all who come within her
calm, good, self-denying influence — is quite a woman.
What other changes have come upon me, besides the changes in
my growth and looks, and in the knowledge I have garnered all
this while ? I wear a gold watch and chain, a ring upon my little
finger, and a long-tailed coat ; and I use a great deal of bear's
grease — which, taken in conjunction with the ring, looks bad. Am
I in love again ? I am. I worship the eldest Miss Larkins.
The eldest Miss Larkins is not a httle girl. She is a tall, dark,
black-eyed, fine figure of a woman. The eldest Miss Larkins is not
a chicken ; for the youngest Miss Larkins is not that, and the eldest
must be three or four years older. Perhaps the eldest Miss Larkins
may be about thirty. My passion for her is beyond all bounds.
The eldest Miss Larkins knows officers. It is an awful thing to
bear. I see them speaking to her in the street. I see them cross
the way to meet her, when her bonnet (she has a bright ta-ste in
bonnets) is seen coming down the pavement, accompanied by her
sister's bonnet. She laughs and talks, and seems to hke it. I spend
a good deal of my own spare time in walking up and down to meet
her. If I can bow to her once in the day (I know her to bow to,
knowing Mr. Larkins), I am happier. I deserve a bow now and
then. The raging agonies I suffer on the night of the Race Ball,
where I know the eldest Miss Larkins will be dancing with the
mihtary, ought to have some compensation, if there be even-handed
'ustice in the world.
My passion takes away my appetite, and makes me wear my
newest sUk neck-kerchief continually. I have no rehef but in put-
814 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
ting on my best clothes, and having my boots cleaned over and ovei
again. I seem, then, to be worthier of the eldest Miss Larkins.
Everything that belongs to her, or is connected with her, is precious
to me. Mr. Larkins (a gruff old gentleman with a double chin,
and one of his eyes immovable in his head) is fraught with interest
to me. When I can't meet his daughter, I go where I am likely to
meet him. To say "How do you do, Mr. Larkins? Are the
young ladies and all the family quite well ? " seems so pointed, that
I blush.
I think continually about my age. Say I am seventeen, and say
that seventeen is young for the eldest Miss Larkins, what of that ?
Besides, I shall be one-and-twenty in no time almost. I regularly
take walks outside Mr. Larkins's house in the evening, though it cuts
me to the heart to see the officers go in, or to hear them up in the
drawing-room, where the eldest Miss Larkins plays the harp. I
even walk, on two or three occasions, in a sickly, spoony manner,
round and round the house after the family are gone to bed, won-
dering which is the eldest Miss Larkins's chamber (and pitching, I
dare say now, on Mr. Larkins's instead) ; wishing that a fire would
burst out ; that the assembled crowd would stand appalled ; that I,
dashing through them with a ladder, might rear it against her
window, save her in my arms, go back for something she had left
behind, and perish in the flames. For I am generally disinterested
in my love, and think I could be content to make a figure before
Miss Larkins, and expire.
— Generally, but not always. Sometimes brighter ^^sions rise
before me. When I dj*ess (the occupation of two hours), for a great
ball given at the Larkins's (the anticipation of three weeks), I indulge
my fancy with pleasing images. I picture myself taking courage to
make a declaration to Miss Larkins. I picture Miss Larkins sinking
her head upon my shoulder, and saying, " Oh, Mr. Copperfield, can
I believe my ears!" I picture Mr. Larkins waiting on me next
morning and saying, " My dear Copperfield, my daughter has told
me all. Youth is no objection. Here are twenty thousand pounds.
Be happy !" I picture my aunt relenting and blessing us ; and Mr,
Dick and Doctor Strong being present at the marriage ceremony.
1 am a sensible fellow, I believe — I believe, on looking back, I mean
—and modest I am sure ; but all this goes on notwithstanding.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 315
I repair to the enchanted house, where there are lights, chatter-
ing, music, flowers, ofiicei-s (I am sorry to see), and the eldest Miss
Larkins, a blaze of beauty. She is dressed in blue, with blue flowers
in her hair — forget-me-nots — as if she had any need to wear forget-
me-nots ! It is the fii-st really grown-up party that I have ever been
invited to, and I am a httle uncomfortable ; for I appear not to
belong to anybody, and nobody appears to have anything to say to
me, except Mr. Larkins, who asks me how my schoolfellows are,
which he needn't do, as I have not come there to be insulted. But
after I have stood in the doorway for some time, and feasted my
eyes upon the goddess of my heart, she approaches me — she, the
eldest Miss Larkins ! — and asks me, pleasantly, if I dance.
I stammer, with a bow, " With you. Miss Larkins."
" With no one else ?" enquires Miss Larkins.
" I should have no pleasure in dancing with any one else."
Miss Larkins laughs and blushes (or I think she blushes), and
&a} s, " Next time but one, I shall be very glad."
The time arrives. " It is a waltz, I think," Miss Larkins doubt-
fully observes, when I present myself. " Do you waltz ? K not,
Captain Bailey — "
But I do waltz (pretty well, too, as it happens), and I take Miss
Larkins out. I take her sternly fi'om the side of Captain Bailey.
He is wretched, I have no doubt ; but he is nothing to me. I have
been wretched, too. I waltz with the eldest Miss I^arkins ! I don't
know where, among whom, or how long. I only know that I swim
about in space, with a blue angel, in a state of blissful delirium,
until I find myself alone with her in a little room, resting on a sofa.
She admires a flower (pink camelia japonica, price half-a-crown), in
my button hole. I give it her, and say :
" I ask an inestimable price for it, Afiss Larkins."
" Indeed ! WHbat is that ?" returns Miss Larkins.
" A flower of yours, that I may treasure it as a miser does gold."
" You 're a bold boy," says Miss Larkins. " There."
She gives it me, not displeased ; and I put it to my lips, and then
into my breast. Miss Larkins, laughing, draws her hand through
my arm, and says, " Now take me back to Captain Bailey."
I am lost in the recollection of this delicious interview, and the
316 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
waltz, when she comes to me again, with a plain elderly gentleman,
who has been playing whist all night, upon her arm, and says :
" O ! here is my bold friend ! Mr. Chestle wants to know you,
Mr. Copperfield."
I feel at once that he is a friend of the family, and am much
gratified.
" I admire your taste, sir," said Mr. Chestle. " It does you credit.
I suppose you don't take much interest in hops ; but I am a pretty
large grower myself ; and if you ever like to come over to our neigh-
bourhood— neighbourhood of Ashford — and take a run about our
place, we shall be glad for you to stop as long as you like."
I thank Mr. Chestle warmly, and shake hands. I think I am in
a happy dream. I waltz with the eldest Miss Larkins once again —
she says I waltz so well ! I go home in a state of unspeakable bliss,
and waltz, in imagination, all night long, with my arm round the
blue waist of my dear di\'inity. For some days afterwards, I am lost
in rapturous reflections ; but I neither see her in the street, nor when
I call. I am imperfectly consoled for this disappointment by the
sacred pledge, the perished flower.
" Trotwood," says Agnes, one day after dinner. " Who do you
think is going to be married to-morrow ? Some one you admire."
" Not you, I suppose, Agnes ?"
" Not me !" raising her cheerful face from the music she is copying.
*' Do you hear him, Papa ? — The eldest Miss Larkins."
" To — ^to Captain Bailey ?" I have just power enough to ask.
** No ; to no Captain. To Mr. Chestle, a hop-grower."
I am terribly dejected for about a week or two. I take off my
ring, I wear my worst clothes, I use no bear's grease, and I frequently
lament over the late Miss Larkins's faded flower. Being, by that
time, rather tired of this kind of life, and having received new provo-
cation from the butcher, I throw the flower away, go out with the
butcher, and gloriously defeat him.
This, and the resumption of my ring, as well as of the bear's
grease in moderation, are the last marks I can discern, now, in my
progress to seventeen.
CHAPTER XIX.
I LOOK ABOUT ME, AND MAKE A DISCOVERY.
I AM doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorry, when my
school-days drew to an end, and the time came for my leaving
Doctor Strong's. I had been very happy there, I had a great at-
tachment for the Doctor, and I was eminent and distinguished in
that little world. For these reasons I was sorry to go ; but for other
reasons, unsubstantial enough, I was glad. Misty ideas of being a
young man at my o'vmi disjjosal, of the importance attaching to a
young man at his own disposal, of the wonderful things to be seen
and done by that magnificent animal, and the wonderful effects he
could not fail to make upon society, lured me away. So powerful
were these visionary considerations in my boyish mind, that I seem,
according to my present way of thinking, to have left school without
natural regret. The separation has not made the impression on me,
that other separations have. I try in vain to recal how I felt about
it, and what its circumstances were ; but it is not momentous in my
recollection. I suppose the opening prospect confused me. I know
that my juvenile experiences went for little or nothing then ; and
that life was more like a great fairy story, which I was just about to
oegin to read, than anything else.
My aunt and I had held many grave deliberations on the callino^
to which I should be devoted. For a year or more I had en-
deavoured to find a satisfactory answer to her often-repeated ques-
tion, " What I would like to be ?" But I had no particular liking,
that I could discover, for anything. If I could have been inspired
with a knowledge of the science of navigation, taken the command
of a fast-sailing expedition, and gone round the world on a triumph-
ant voyage of discovery, I think I might have considered myself
completely suited. But, in the absence of any sucli miraculous pro
817
818 ^ DAVID COPPERFIELD.
vision, my desire was to apply myself to some pursuit that would not
lie too heavily upon her purse ; and to do my duty in it, whatever it
might be.
Mr. Dick had regularly assisted at our councils, with a meditative
and sage demeanour. He never made a suggestion but once ; and
on that occasion (I don't know what put it in his head), he suddenly
proposed that I should be " a Brazier." My aunt received this pro-
posal so very ungraciously, that he never ventured on a second ; but
ever afterwards confined himself to looking watchfully at her for her
suggestions, and rattling his money.
" Trot, I tell you what, my dear," said my aunt, one morning, in
the Christmas season when I left school ; " as this knotty point is still
unsettled, and as we must not make a mistake in our decision if we
can help it, I think we had better take a little breathing-time. In
the meanwhile, you must try to look at it fi'om a new point of view,
and not as a schoolboy."
" I will, aunt."
" It has occurred to me," pursued my aunt, " that a little change,
and a glimpse of life out of doors, may be useful, in helping you to
know your own mind, and form a cooler judgment. Suppose you
were to take a little journey now. Suppose you were to go down
into the old part of the country again, for instance, and see that —
that out-of-the-way woman with the savagest of names," said my
aunt, rubbing her nose, for she could never thoroughly forgive Peg-
gotty for being so called.
" Of all things in the world, aunt, I should like it best !"
" Well," said my aunt, " that's lucky, for I should like it too. But
it 's natural and rational that you should like it. And I am very
well persuaded that whatever you do, Trot, will always be natural
and rational."
" I hope so, aunt."
" Your sister, Betsey Trotwood," said my aunt, " would havej)een
as natural and rational a girl as ever breathed. You '11 be worthy
of her, won't you ?"
" I hope I shall be worthy of you, aunt. That will be enough for
mc."
" It 's a mercy that poor dear baby of a mother of yours didn't
DAVID COrPERFlELD. 819
live," said my aunt, looking at me approvingly, " or she'd have been
so vain of her boy by this time, that her soft little head would have
been completely turned, if there was anything of it left to tuni."
(My aunt always excused any weakness of her own in my behalf, by
transferring it in this way to my poor mother.) " Bless me, Trot-
wood, how you do remind me of her ?"
" Pleasantly, I hope, aunt ?" said I.
" He 's as hke her, Dick," said my aunt, emphatically, " he 's as
hke her, as she was that afternoon, before she began to fret — bless
my heart he 's as like her, as he can look at me out of his two
eyes !"
" Is he indeed ?" said Mr. Dick.
" And he 's like David, too," said my aunt, decisively.
" He is very like David !" said Mr. Dick.
" But what I want you to be, Trot," resumed my aunt — " I don't
mean physically, but morally ; you are ver} well physically — is, a
firm fellow. A fine firm fellow, with a will of your own. With resolu-
tion," said my aunt, shaking her cap at me, and clenching her hand.
" With determination. With character, Trot — with streno-th of
character that is not to be influenced, except on good reason, by any-
body, or by anything. That 's what I want you to be. That 's what
your father and mother might both have been, Heaven knows, and
been the better for it."
I intimated that I hoped I should be what she described.
" That you may begin, in a small way, to have a reliance upoD
yourself, and to act for yourself," said my aunt, " I sliall send you
upon your trip, alone. I did think, once, of Mr. Dick's going with
you ; but, on second thoughts, I shall keep him to take care of me.''
Mr. Dick, for a moment, looked a little disappointed ; until the
honor and dignity of having to take cai'e of the most wonderful
woman in the world, restored the sunshine to his face.
" Besides," said my aunt, " there 's the Memorial — "
" Oh, certainly," said Mr. Dick, in a hurry, " I intend, Trotwood,
to get that done immediately — it really must be done immediately !
And then it \y\\\ go in, you know — and then," said Mr. Dick, after
checking himself, and pausing a long time, " there '11 be a pretty
k€tti3 of fish !"
820 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
In pursuance of my aunt's kind scheme, I was shortly after
wards fitted out with a handsome purse of money, and a poi-tman
teau, and tenderly dismissed upon my expedition. At parting, m)
aunt gave me some good advice, and a good many kisses ; and saic
that as her object was that I should look about me, and should thinl
a little, she wauld recommend me to stay a few days in London, if 1
liked it, either on my way down into Suffolk, or in coming back
In a word, I was at liberty to do what I would, for three weeks or i
month ; and no other conditions were imposed upon my freedom thai
the before-mentioned thinking and looking about me, and a pledge
to write three times a week and faithfully report myself.
I went to Canterbury first, that I might take leave of Agnes and
Mr. Wickfield (my old room in whose house I had not yet relin-
quished), and also of the good Doctor. Agnes was very glad to see
me, and told me that the house had not been like itself since I hac^
left it.
" I am sure I am not like myself when I am away," said I. " 1
seem to want my light hand, when I miss you. Though that's not
saying much ; for there's no head in my right hand, and no heart.
Every one who knows you consults with you, and is guided by you,
Agues."
" Every one who knows me, spoils me, I believe," she answered,
smiling.
" No. It's because you are like no one else. You are so good,
and so sweet-tempered. You have such a gentle nature, and you
are always right."
" You talk," said Agnes, breaking into a pleasant laugh, as she
sat at work, " as if I were the late Miss Larkins."
" Come ! It's not fair to abuse my confidence," I answered, red-
dening at the recollection of my blue enslaver. " I )Ut I shall confide
in you, just the same, Agnes. I can never grow out of that. When-
ever I fall into trouble, or fall in love, I shall always tell you, if
you'll let rile — even when I come to fall in love in earnest."
" Why, you have always been in earnest !" said Agnes, laughing
again.
" Oh ! that was as a child, or a school-boy," said I, laughing in
my turn, not without being a little sharae-fac3d. "Times are alter
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 821
ing now, and I suppose I shall be in a terrible state of earnestness
one day or other. My wonder is, that you are not in earnest your
self, joy this time, Agnes."
Agnes laughed again, and shook her head.
" Oh, I know you are not !" said I ; " because, if you had been
you would have told me. Or at least," — for I saw a faint blush in
her face, — " you would have let me find it out for myself. But there
is no one that I know of, who deserves to love you, Agnes. Some
one of a nobler character, and more worthy altogether than any one
I have ever seen here, must rise up, before I give my consent. In
the time to come, I shall have a wary eye on all admirers ; and shall
exact a great deal from the successful one, I assure you."
We had gone on, so far, in a mixture of confidential jest and ear-
nest, that had long grown naturally out of our familiar relations,
begun as mere children. But Agnes, now suddenly lifting up her
eyes to mine, and speaking in a different manner, said :
^' Trotwood, there is something that 1 want to ask you, and that I
may not have another opportunity of asking for a long time, perhaps
— something I would ask, I think, of no one else. Have you ob-
served any gradual alteration in Papa ?"
I had observed it, and had often wondered whether she had too.
I must have shown as much now, in ray face ; for her eyes were in
a moment cast down, and I saw tears in them.
" Tell D>e what it is," she said, in a low voice.
" I think — shall I be quite plain, Agnes, hking him so much ?"
" Yes," she said.
" I think he does himself no good by the habit that has increased
upon him since I first came here. He is often very nervous — or I
fancy so."
" It is not fancy," said Agnes, shaking her head.
" His hand trembles, his speech is not plain, and his eyes look
wild. I have remarked that at those times, and when he is least
like himself, he is most certain to be wanted on some business."
" By Uriah," said Agnes.
" Yes ; and the sense of being unfit for it, or of not having under-
stood it, or of having shown his condition in spite of himself, seems
to make him so uneasy, that m\i day he is worse, and next daj
20
322 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
worse, and so he becomes jaded and haggard. Do not be alarmea
by what I say, Agnes, but in this state I saw him, only the othef
evening, lay down his head upon his desk, and shed tears like a
child."
Her hand passed softly before my lips while I was yet speaking,
and in a moment she had met her father at the door of the room,
and was hanging on his shoulder. The expression of her face, as
they both looked towards me, I felt to be very touching. There
was such deep fondness for him, and gratitude to him for all his love
and care, in her beautiful look ; and there was such a fervent appeal
to me to deal tenderly by him, even in my inmost thoughts, and to
let no harsh construction find any place against him ; she was, at
once, so proud of him and devoted to him, yet so compassionate and
sorry, and so reliant upon me to be so, too ; that nothing she could
have said would have expressed more to me, or moved me more.
We were to drink tea at the Doctor's. We went there at the
usual hour, and round the study-fireside found the Doctor, and his
young wife, and her mother. The Doctor, who made as much of
my going away as if I were going to China, received me as an
honored guest, and called for a log of wood to be thrown on the fire,
that he might see the face of his old pupil reddening in the blaze.
" I shall not see many more new faces in Trotwood's stead. Wick-
field," said the Doctor, warming his hands; "I am getting lazy, and
want ease. I shall relinquish all my young people in another six
months, and lead a quieter hfe."
•' You have said so, any time these ten years, Doctor," Mr. Wick-
field answered.
" But now I mean to do it," returned the Doctor. " My first
master will succeed me — I am in earnest at last — so you'll soon have
to arrange our contracts, and to bind us firmly to them, like a couple
of knaves."
" And to take care," said Mr. Wickfield, " that you're not imposed
on, eh ? — as you certainly would be, in any contract you should
make for yourself. Well ! I am ready. There are worse tasks than
that, in my calhng."
" I shall have nothing to think of then," said the Doctor, with a
smile, " but my Dictionary ; and this other contract-bargain —
Annie."
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 828
As Mr. Wickfiekl glanced towaids her, sitting at the tea-table by
Agnes, she seemed tome to avoid his look with such unwonted hesi-
tation and timidity, that his attention became fixed upon her, as if
something were suggested to his thoughts.
" There is a post come in from India, I observe," he said, after a
short silence.
" By-the-by ! and letters from Mr. Jack Maldon !" said the Doctor-.
"Indeed?"
" Poor dear Jack !" said Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head.
" That trying climate ! — like living, they tell me, on a sand-heap,
underneath a burning-glass ! He looked strong, but he wasn't. My
dear Doctor, it was his spmt, not his constitution, that he ventured
on so boldly. Annie, my dear, I am sure you must perfectly recol-
lect that your cousin never was strong — not what can be called
robust, you know," said Mrs. Markleham, with emphasis, and looking
round upon us generally — " from the time when my daughter and
himself were children together, and walking about, arm in arm, the
livelong day."
Ajinie, thus addressed, made no reply.
" Do I gather from what you say, ma'am, that Mi*. Maldon is ill ?'*
asked Mr. Wickfield.
" 111 ?" rephed the Old Soldier. " My dear sir, he is all sorts of
things."
"Except well?" said Mr. Wickfield.
" Except well, indeed !" said the Old Soldier. " He has had
dreadful strokes of the sun, no doubt, and jungle fevers and agues,
and every kind of thing you can mention. As to his liver," said the
Old Soldier resignedly, " that, of course, he gave up altogether, whea.
he first went out !"
" Does he say all this ?" asked Mr. Wickfield.
" Say ? My dear sir," returned Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head
and her fan, " you Uttle know my poor Jack Maldon when you ask
that question. Say ? Not he. You might drag him at the heels
of four wild horses first."
" Mama !" said Mrs. Strong.
" Annie, my dear," returned her mother, " once for all, I must
really beg that you will Lot interfere with me, unless it is to ooufirm
824 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
what I say. You know as well as I do, that your cousin MalJon
would be dragged at the heels of any number of wild horses — why
should I confine myself to four ! I wonH confine myself to four —
eight, sixteen, two-and-thirty, rather than say anj^thing calculated
to overturn the Doctor's plans."
" Wickfield's plans," said the Doctor, stroking his face, and looking
penitently at his adviser. " That is to say, our joint plans for him.
I said myself, abroad or at home."
" And I said," added Mr. Wickfield gi-avely, " abroad. I was the
means of sending him abroad. It's my responsibility."
" Oh ! Responsibihty !" said the Old Soldier. " Ev^erything was
done for the best, my dear Mi-. Wickfield ; everything was done for
the kindest and best, we know. But if the dear fellow can't live
there, he can't live there. And if he can't live there, he'll die there,
sooner than he'll overturn the Doctor's plans. I know him," said
the Old Soldier, fanning herself, in a sort of calm prophetic agony,
" and I know he'll die there, sooner than he'll overturn the Doctor's
plans."
" Well, well, ma'am," said the Doctor, cheerfully, " I am not
bigoted to my plans, and I can overturn them myself. I can substi-
tute some other plans. If Mr. Jack Maldon comes home on account
of ill health, he must not be allowed to go back, and we must endea-
vour to make some more suitable and fortunate provision for him in
this country.^ -
Mrs. Markleham was so overcome by this generous speech —
which, I need not say, she had not at all expected or led up to — that
she could only tell the Doctor it was like himself, and go several
times through that operation of kissing the sticks of her fan, and then
tapping his hand with it. After which she gently chid her
daughter Annie, for not being more demonstrative when such kind-
nesses were showered, for her sake, on her old playfellow ; and
entertained us with some particulars concerning other deserving
members of her family, whom it was desirable to set on their deserv-
ing legs.
All this time, her daughter Annie never once spoke, or hfted up
her eyes. All this time, Mr. Wickfield had his glance upon her as
she sat by his own daughter's side. It appeared to me that he never
DAVID COrrERFIELD. 325
thought of hi'mg observed by any one ; but was so intent upon her,
and upon his own thoughts in connexion with her, as to be quite
absorbed. He now asked what Mr. Jack Maldon had actually
written in reference to himself, and to whom he had written it ?
" Why, here," said Mi*s. Markleham, taking a letter from the
chimney-piece above the Doctor's head, " the dear fellow says to the
Doctor himself — where is it? Oh! — 'I am sorry to inform you that
my health is suffering severely, and that I fear I may be reduced to
the necessity of returning home for a time, as the only hope of
restoration.' That's pretty plain, poor fellow ! His only hope of
restoration ! But Annie's letter is plainer still. Annie, show me
that letter again."
" Not now, mama," she pleaded in a low tone.
"My dear, you absolutely are, on some subjects, one of the most
ridiculous persons in the world," returned her mother, " and perhaps
the most unnatural to the claims of your own family. We never
should have heard of the letter at all, I believe, unless I had asked
for it myself Do you call that confidence, my lov^e, towards Doctor
Strong ? I am surprised. You ought to know better."
The letter was reluctantly produced ; and as I handed it to the
old lady, I saw how the unwilling hand from which I took it,
trembled.
" Now let us see," said Mrs. Markleham, putting her glass to her
eye, " where the passage is. ' The remembrance of old times, my
dearest Annie — and so forth — it's not there. 'The amiable old
Proctor' — who's he ? Dear me, Annie, how illegibly your cousin
Maldon writes, and how stupid I am ! ' Doctor,' of course. Ah !
amiable indeed !" Here she left off, to kiss her fan again, and shake
it at the Doctor, who was looking at us in a state of placid satisfac-
tion. " Now I have found it, ' Vou may not be surprised to hear,
Annie' — no, to be sure, knowing that he never was really strong;
what did I say just now ? — ' that I have undergone so much in this
distant place, as to have decided to leave it at all hazards ; on sick
^eave, if I can ; on total resignation, if that is not to be obtained.
What I have endured, and do endure here, is insupportable.' And
but for the promptitude of that best of creatures," said Mrs. Markle
326 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
ham, telegraphing the Doctor as before, and r( folding the letter, " it
would be insupportable to me to think of."
Mr. Wickfield said not one word, though the old lady looked to
him as if for his commentary on this intelligence ; but sat severely
silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Long after the subject
was dismissed, and other topics occupied us, he remained so ; seldom
raising his eyes, unless to rest them for a moment, with a thoughtful
frown, upon the Doctor, or his wife, or both.
The Doctor was very fond of music. Agnes sang with great
sweetness and expression, and so did Mrs. Strong. They sang
together, and played duets together, and we had quite a little con-
cert. But I remarked two things : first, that though Annie soon
recovered her composure, and was quite herself, there was a blank
between her and Mr. Wickfield which separated them wholly fi-om
each other ; secondly, that Mr. Wickfield seemed to dislike the inti-
macy between her and Agnes, and to watch it with uneasiness.
And now, I must confess, the recollection of what I had seen on that
night when Mr. Mai don went away, first began to return upon me
with a meaning it had never had, and to trouble me. The innocent
beauty of her face was not as innocent to me as it had been ; I mis-
trusted the natural grace and charm of her manner ; and when I
looked at Agnes by her side, and thought how good and true Agnes
was, suspicions arose within me that it was an ill-assorted friend-
ship.
She was so happy in it herself, however, and the other was so
happy too, that they made the evening fly away as if it were but
an hour. It closed in an incident which I well remember.' They
were taking leave of each other, and Agnes was going to embrace
her and kiss her, when Mr. Wickfield stepped between them, as if
by accident, and drew Agnes quickly away. Then I saw, as though
all the intervening time had been cancelled, and I were still standing
in the doorway on the night of the departure, the expression of that
flight in the face of Mrs. Strong, as it confronted his.
I cannot say what an impression this made upon me, or how
nn})ossible I found it, when I thought of her afterwards, to separate
her from this look, and remember her face in its innocent loveliness
again. It haunted me when I snot home. I seemed to have left
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 327
the Doctors roof with a dark cloud lovvei'ing on it. Tlie reverence
that I had for his grey head, was mingled with commiseration for
his faith in those who were treacherous to him, and with resentment
against those who injured him. The impending shadow of a great
affliction, and a great disgrace that had no distinct form in it yet, fdl
hke a stain upon the quiet place where I had worked and played as
a boy, and did it a cruel wrong. I had no pleasure in thinking, any
more, of the grave old broad-leaved aloe-trees which remained shut
up in themselves a hundred years together, and of the trim, smooth
grass-plot, and the stone urns, and the Doctor's walk, and the con-
genial sound of the Cathedral bell hovering above them all. It was
as if the tranquil sanctuary of my boyhood had been sacked before
my face, and its peace and honor given to the winds.
But morning brought with it my parting fi'om the old house,
which Agnes had filled with her influence ; and that occupied my
mind sufficiently. I should be there again soon, no doubt ; I might
sleep again — perhaps often — in my old room ; but the days of my
inhabiting there were gone, and the old time was past. I was
heavier at heart when I packed up such of my books and cl<jthes as
still remained there to be sent to Dover, than I cared to show to
Uriah Heep : who was so officious to help me, that I uncharitably
thought him mighty glad that I was going.
I got away from Agnes and her father, somehow, with an indiffe-
rent show of being very manly, and took my seat upon the box of
the London coach. I was so softened and forgiving, going through
the town, that I had half a mind to nod to my old enemy the
butcher, and throw him five shillings to drink. But he looked such
a very obdurate butcher as he stood scraping the gi*eat block in the
shop, and moreover, his appear;'.nce was so httle improved by the
loss of a front tooth which I had Knocked out, that I thought it best
to make no advances.
The main object on my mind, I remember, when we got fairly on
the road, was to appear as old as possible to the coachman, and to
speak extremely gruft'. The latter point I achieved at great personal
inconvenience ; but I stuck to it, because I felt it was a grown-up
•ort of thing.
" You are going through, fu* ?" said the coaclim.aii.
828 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Yes, "William," I said, condescendingly (I knew him) ; "I am
going to London. I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards."
" Shooting, sir ?" said the coachman.
He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that time
of year, I was going down there whaling ; but I felt complimented,
too.
" I don't know," I said, pretending to be undecided, " whether 1
shall take a shot or not."
" Birds is got wery shy, I 'm told," said William.
" So I understand," said I.
" Is Suflfolk your county, sir ?" asked William.
" Yes," I said, with some importance, " Suffolk 's my county."
"I 'm told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there," said
William.
I was not aware of it myself, but I felt it necessary to uphold the
institutions of my county, and to evince a familiarity with them ; so
I shook my head, as much as to say " I beheve you !"
" .Vnd the Puncnes," said Wilham. " There 's cattle ! A Suffolk
Punch, when he 's a good un, is worth his weight in gold. Did
you ever breed any Suffolk Punches yourself, sir ?"
" N — no," I said, " not exactly."
" Here 's a gen'lm'n behind me, I '11 pound it," said WiUiam, " as
has bred 'em by wholesale."
The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very unpromis-
ing squint, and a prominent chin, who had a tall white hat on with
a narrow flat brim, and whose close-fitting drab trousere seemed to
button all the way up outside his legs from his boots to his hips.
His chin was cocked over the coachman's shoulder, so near to me,
that his breath quite tickled the back of my head ; and as I looked
round at him, he leered at the leaders with the eye with which he
didn't squint, in a very knowing manner.
"Ain't you ?" said William.
" Ain't I what ?" asked the gentleman behind.
" Bred them Suffolk Punches by wholesale ?"
" I should think so," said the gentleman. " There ain't no sort
of orse that I ain't bred, and no sort of dorg. Orses and dorgs is
some men's fancy. They're wittles and diink to me — lodging, wife,
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 329
and children — reading, writing, and 'rithmetic — snuflf, tobacker, and
sleep."
" That ain't a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach-box, is it
though ?" said William in my ear, as he handled the reins.
I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that he should
have my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it.
" Well, if you don't mind, sir," said Wilham, " I think it would
be more correct."
I have always considered this as the fii*st fall I had in life. When
I booked my place at the coach-office, I had had " Box Seat" written
against the entry, and had given the book-keeper half-a-crown. I
w^as got up in a special great coat and shawl, expressly to do honour
to that distinguished eminence ; had glorified myself upon it a good
deal ; and had felt that I was a credit to the coach. And here, in
the very first stage, I was supplanted by a shabby man with a squint,
who had no other merit than smelling like a livery-stables, and being
able to walk across me, more like a tiy than a human being, while
the horses were at a canter !
A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on small
occasions, when it would have been better away, was assuredly not
stopped in its growth by this little incident outside the Canterbury
coach. It was in vain to take refuge in gruflfness of speech. I spoke
from the pit of my stomach for the rest of the journey, but I felt
completely extinguished, and dreadfully young.
It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting up there,
behind four horses : well educated, well dressed, and with })lenty of
money in my pocket : and to look out for the places where I had
slept on my weary journey. I had abundant occu])ation for my
thoughts, in every conspicuous landmark on the road. When I
looked down at the trampers whom we passed, and saw that well'
remembered style of face turned up, I felt as if the tinker's blackened
hand were in the bosom of my shirt again. When we clattered
tlirough the narrow street of Chatham, and I caught a glimpse, in
passing, of the lane where the old monster lived who had bought
m} jacket, I stretched my neck eagerly to look for the place where
I had sat, in the sun and in the shade, waiting for my money.
When we came, at laat, within a stage of London, and passed th«
830 DAVID COrPEPtFTELD.
veritable Salem House where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with
a heavy hand, I would have given all I had, for lawful permission to
get down and thrash him, and let all the boys out like so many
caged sparrows.
We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross, then a mouldy
sort of estabhshment in a close neighbourhood. A waiter showed
me into the coffee-room ; and a chambermaid introduced me to my
small bedchamber, which smelt like a hackney-coach, and was shut
up like a family vault. I was still painfully conscious of my youth,
for nobody stood in any awe of me at all : the chambermaid being
utterly indifferent to my opinions on any subject, and the waiter
being familiar with me, and offering ad\ice to my inexperience.
. " Well now," said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, " what
would you like for dinner? Young gentlemen hkes poultry in
general, have a fow^l !"
I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn't in the humour
for a fowl.
'' Ain't you !" said the waiter. " Young gentlemen is generally
tired of beef and mutton, have a weal cutlet !"
I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest
anything else.
" Do you care for taters ?" said the waiter, with an insinuating
smile, and his head on one side. " Young gentlemen generally has
been over-dosed with taters."
I commanded him in my deepest voice, to order a veal cutlet and
potatoes, and all things fitting ; and to inquire at the bar if there
were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield, Esquire — which I knew
there were not, and couldn't be, but thought it manly to appear to
expect.
He soon came back to say that there were none (at which I was
much surprised), and began to lay the cloth for my dinner in a box
by the fire. While he was so engaged he asked me what I w^ould
take with it ; and on my replying " Half a pint of sherry," thought
it a favourable opportunity, I am afraid, to extract that measure of
wine from the stale leavings at the bottoms of several small decan-
ters. I am of this opinion, because, while I was reading the news-
paper, I observed him behind a low wooden partition, which was his
My first Fall in Life.
\.
.^>0^\^'
vc«
DAVID COrrERFIELD. 331
private apartment, very busy pouring out of a number of those
vessels into one, like a chemist and druggist making up a prescription.
When the wine came, too, I thought it flat ; and it certainly had
more English crumbs in it, than were to be expected in a foreign
wine in anything like a pure state ; but I was bashful enough to
drink it, and say nothing.
Being, then, in a pleasant frame of mind (from which I infer that
poisoning is not always disagreeable in some stages of the process),
I resolved to go to the play. It was Covent Garden Theatre that I
chose ; and there, from the back of a centre box, I saw Juhus Caesar
and the new Pantomime. To ha\'e all those noble Romans alive
before me, and walking in and out for my entertainment, instead of
being the stern taskmasters they had been at school, was a most
novel and dehghtful effect. But the mingled reality and mystery
of the whole show, the influence upon me of the poetry, the lights,
the music, the company, the smooth stupendous changes of ghttering
and brilliant scenery, were so dazzhng, and opened up such illimita-
ble regions of delight, that when I came out into the rainy street, at
twelve o'clock at night, I felt as if I had come from the clouds, where
I had been leading a romantic life for ages, to a bawhng, splashing,
link-lighted, umbrella-struggling, hackney-coach-jostling, patten-
clinking, muddy, miserable world.
I had emerged by another door, and stood in the street for a little
while, as if I really were a stranger upon earth : but the unceremo-
nious pushing and hustling that I received, soovi recalled me to
myself, and put me in the road back to the hotel ; whither I went,
revolving the glorious vision all the way ; and where, after some
porter -and oysters, I sat revolving it still, at past one o'clock, with
iny eyes on the coffee-room fire.
I was so filled with the ilay, and with the past — for it was, in a
manner, like a shining transjjarency, through which I saw my earlier
hfe moving along — that I don't know when the figure of a handsome
well-formed young man, dressed with a tasteful easy neghgence
which I have reason to remember very well, became a real presence
to me. But I recollect being conscious of his company without
having noticed his coming in — and my still sitting, musing, over the
coffee-room fire.
332 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
At last I rose to go to bed, much to the rehef of the sle(;py
waiter, who had got the fidgets in his legs, and was twisting them,
and hitting them, and putting them through all kinds of contortions
in his small pantry. In going towards the door, I passed the per-
son who had come in, and saw him plainly. I turned directly,
came back, and looked again. He did not know me, but I knew
him in a moment.
At another time I mia;ht have wanted the confidence or the deci-
sion to speak to him, and might have put it off until next day, and
might have lost him. But, in the then condition of my mind,
where the play was still running high, his former protection of me
appeared so deserxing of my gratitude, and my old love for him
overflowed my breast so freshly and spontaneously, that I went up
to him at once, with a fast-beating heart, and said :
" Steerforth ! won't you speak to me ? "
He looked at me — just as he used to look, sometimes — but I saw
DO recognition in his face.
" You don't remember me, I am afraid," said I.
" My God !" he suddenly exclaimed. " It's little Copperfield !"
I grasped him by both hands, and could not let them go. But
for very shame, and the fear that it might displease him, I could
have held him round the neck and cried.
" I never, never, never was so glad ! My dear Steerforth, I am so
oveijoyed to see you !"
" And I am rejoiced to see you, too !" he said, shaking my hands
heartily. "Why, Copperfield, old boy, don't be overpowered!"
And yet he was glad, too, I thought, to see how the delight I had
in meeting him aSected me.
I brushed away the tears that my utmost Tesolution had not been
able to keep back, and I made a clumsy laugh of it, and we sat
down together, side by side.
" Why, how do you come to be here ? " said Sleerforth, clapping
me on the shoulder.
"I came here by the Canterbury coach, to-day. I have been
adopted by an aunt down in that part of the country, and ha^e just
finished my education there. How do you come to be here,
Steerforth?"
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 333
** Well, I am what tbey call an Oxford man," he returned ; " that
is to say, I get bored to death down there, periodically — and I am
on my way now to my mother's. You 're a devilish amiable-look-
ing fellow, Copperfield. Just what you used to be, now I look at
you ! Not altered in the least !"
" I knew you immediately," I said ; " but you are more easily
remembered."
He laughed as he ran his hand through the clustering curls of
his hair, and said gaily :
" Yes, I am on an expedition of duty. My mother lives a httle
way out of town ; and the roads being in a beastly condition, and
our house tedious enough, I remained here to-night instead of going
on. I have not been in town half-a-dozen hours, and those I have
been dozing and grumbling away at the play."
" I have been at the play, too," said I. " At Covent Garden.
What a delightful and magnificent entertainment, Steerforth."
Steerforth laughed heartily.
— " My dear young Davy," he said, clapping me on the shoulder
again, " you are a very Daisy. The daisy of the field, at sunrise, is
not fresher than you are ! I have been at Covent Garden, too, and
there never was a more miserable business ! — Holloa, you, sir ! "
This was addressed to the waiter, who had been very attentive to
our recognition, at a distance, and now came forward deferentially.
" Where have you put my friend, Mr. Gopperfield ?" said
Steerforth.
" Beg your pardon, sir ?"
" Where does he sleep ? What's his number ? You know what
I mean," said Steerforth.
" Well, sir," said the waiter, with an apologetic air. " Mr. Cop-
perfield is at present in forty-four, sir."
" And what the devil do you mean," retorted Steerforth, " by put-
ting Mr. Coppei*field into a little loft over the stable ?"
" Why, you see we wasn't aware, sir," returned the waiter, still
apologetically, "as Mr. Copperfield was anyways particular. We
can give Mr. Gopperfield seventy-two, sir, if it would be preferred
Next you, sir."
334 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Of course it would be preferred," said Sleerforth. " And do it
at cmce."
The waiter immediately withdrew to make the exchange. Steer-
forth, very much amused at my having been put into forty-four,
laughed again, and clapped me on the shoulder again, and invited
me to breakfast with him next morning at ten o'clock — an invita-
tion I was only too proud and happy to accept. It being now pretty
late, we took our candles and went up-stairs, where we parted with
friendly heartiness at his door, and where I found my new room a
great improvement on my old one, it not being at all musty, and
ha\dng an immense four-post bedstead in it, which was quite a little
lauded estate. Here, among pillows enough for six, I soon fell
asleep in a blissful condition, and dreamed of ancient Rome, Steer-
forth, and friendship, until the early moming coaches, rumbling out
of the archway underneath, made me dream of thunder and the
gods.
CHAPTER XX.
BTEERFORTH S HOME.
When the chambermaid tapped at my door at eight o'clock, and
informed me that my shaving-water was outside, I felt severely the
having no occasion for it, and blushed in my bed. The suspicion
that she laughed too, when she said it, preyed upon my mind all
the time 1 was dressing ; and gave me, I was conscious, a sneaking
and guilty air when I passed her on the staircase, as I was going
down to breakfast. I was so sensitively aware, indeed, of being
younger than I could have wished, that for some time I could not
make up my mind to pass her at all, under the ignoble circum-
stances of the case ; but, hearing her there with a broom, stood-
peeping out of window at King Charles on horseback, surrounded
by a maze of hackney-coaches, and looking anything but regal in a
drizzling rain and a dark-brown fog, until I was admonished by the
waiter that the gentleman was waiting for me.
It was not in the coffee-room that I found Steerforth expecting
me, but in a snug private apartment, red-curtained and Turkey-
carpeted, where the fire burnt bright, and a fine hot breakfast was
set forth on a table covered with a clean cloth ; and a cheerful minia-
ture of the room, the fire, the breakfast, Steerforth, and all, was
shining in the little round mirror over the sideboard. I was rather
bashful at first, Steerforth being so self-possessed, and elegant, and
superior to me in all respects (age included) ; but his easy patronage
soon put that to rights, and made me quite at home. I could not
enough admire the change he had wrought in the Golden Cross ;
or compare the dull forlorn state I had held yesterday, with tliis
morning's comfort and this morning's entertainment. As to the
waiter's familiarity, it was quenched as if it had never been. He
attended on us, as I may say, in sackcloth and ashes.
885
836 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
"Now, Coppei-field," said Steerforth, when we were alone, "I
ehoiild like to hear what you are doina;, and where you are going,
and all about you. I feel as if you were my property."
Glowing with pleasure to find that he had still this interest in me,
I told him how my aunt had proposed the little expedition that 1
had before me, and whither it tended.
" As you are in no hurry, then," said Steerforth, " come home
mth. me to Highgate, and stay a day or two. You will be pleased
with my mother — she is a little vain and prosy about me, but that
you can forgive her — and she will be pleased with you."
" I should hke to be as sure of that, as you are kind enough ta
say you are," I answered, smihng.
" Oh !" said Steerforth, " every one who likes me, has a claim on
her that is sure to be acknowledged."
" Then I think I shall be a favourite," said I.
" Good !" said Steerforth. " Come and prove it. We will gc
and see the lions for an hour or two — it 's something to have a fresli
fellow like you to show them to, Copperfield — and then we'll journej
out to Highgate by the coach."
I could hardly believe but that I was in a dream, and that 1
should wake presently in number forty-four, to the solitaiy box in
the coffee-room and the familiar waiter again. After I had written
to my aunt and told her of my fortunate meeting with my admired
old school-fellow, and my acceptance of his invitation, we went out
in a hackney-chariot, and saw a Panorama and some other sights,
and took a walk through the Museum, where I could not help ob-
serving how much Steerforth knew, on an infinite variety of subjects,
and of how little account he seemed to make his knowledcj;©.
" You '11 take a high degree at college, Steerforth," said I, " if you
liave not done so already ; and they will have good reason to be
proud of you."
" / take a degree !" cried Steerforth. " Not I ! my dear Daisy-
will you mind my calling you Daisy ?"
"Not at all!" said I.
" That 's a good fellow ! My dear Daisy," said Steerforth, laugh-
ing, " I have not the least desire or intention to distinguish myself
in that way. I have done quite sufficient for my purpose. I find
that I am heavy company enough for myself, as I am."
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 337
" But the fame " 1 was beginning.
" You romantic Daisy !" said Steerforth, laughing still more
heartily ; " why should I trouble myself, that a parcel of heavy-
headed fellows may gape and hold up their hands ? Let them do it
at some other man. There 's fame for him, and he 's welcome
to it."
I was abashed at having made so great a mistake, and was glad
to change the subject. Fortunately it was not difficult to do, for
Steerforth could always pass from one subject to another with a
carelessness and lightness that were his own.
Lunch succeeded to our sight-seeing, and the short winter day
wore away so fast, that it was dusk when the stage-coach stopped
with us at an old brick house at Hio;ho;ate on the summit of the hill.
An elderly lady, though not very far advanced in years, with a proud
carriage and a handsome face, wtxs in the doorway as we alighted ;
and greeting Steerforth as " My dearest James," folded liim in her
arms. To this lady he presented me as his mother, and she gave
me a stately welcome.
It was a genteel old-fashioned house, very quiet and orderly.
From the windows of my room I saw all London lying in the dis-
tance like a great vapor, with here and there some hghts twinkling
through it. I had only time, in dressing, to glance at the solid
furniture, the framed pieces of work (done, I supposed, by Steerforth's
mother when she was a girl), and some pictures in crayons of ladies
with powdered hair and boddices, coming and going on the walls, as
the newly-kindled fire crackled and sputtered, when I was called to
dinner.
There was a second lady in the dining-room, of a slight short
figure, dark, and not agreeable to look at, but with some api>earance
of good looks too, who attracted my attention : perhaps because I
had not expected to see her ; perhaps because I found myself sitting
opposite to her ; perhaps because of something really remarkable in
lier. She had black hair and eager black eyes, and was thin, and
had a scar upon her lip. It was an old scar — I should rather call it
Beam, for it was not discolored, and had healed years ago — which
had once cut through her mouth, downward towards the chin, but
was now barely visible across the table, except above and on hei
21
338 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
upper lip, the shape of which it had altered. I concluded in my
own mind that she was about thirty years of age, and that she
wished to be married. She was a little dilapidated — like a house —
with having been so long to let ; yet had, as I have said, an appear-
ance of good looks. Her thinness seemed to be the eflfect of some
wasting fire within her, which found a vent in her gaunt eyes.
She was introduced as Miss Dartle, and both Steerforth and his
mother called her Rosa. I found that she lived there, and had
been for a long time Mrs. Steerforth's companion. It ajjpeared to
me that she never said anything she wanted to say, outright ; but
hinted it, and made a great deal more of it by this practice. Foi
example, when jVIrs. Steerforth observed, more in jest than earnest,
that she feared her son led but a wild life at college, Miss Dartle
put in thus :
" Oh, really ? You know how ignorant I am, and that I only
asked for information, but isn't it always so ? I thought that kind
of life was on ail hands undei"stood to be — eh ?"
" It is education for a very grave profession, if you mean that,
Rosa," Mrs. Steerforth answered with some coldness.
"Oh! Yes! That's very true," returned Miss Dartle. "But
isn't it, though ? — I want to be put right if I am wrong — ^isn't it
really?"
" Really what ?" said Mrs. Steerforth.
" Oh ! You mean it's not P^ returned Miss Dartle. " Well, I'm
very glad to hear it ! Xow, I know what to do. That's the ad-
vantage of asking. I shall never allow 2)eople to talk before me
about wastefulness and profligacy, and so forth, in connection with
that life, any more."
" And you will be right," said Mrs. Steerforth. " My son's tutor
is a conscientious gentleman ; and if I had not implicit rehance on
my son, I should have rel ince on him."
" Should you ?" said Miss Dartle. " Dear me ! Conscientious
is he ? Really conscientious, now ?"
" Yes, I am convinced of it," said Mrs. Steerforth.
" How very nice ! exclaimed Miss Dartle. " What a comfort I
Really conscientious ? Then he's not — but of course he can't be, if
he's really conscientious. Well, I shall be quite happy in my opi-
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 339
nion of him, from this time. You can't think how it elevates him in
my opinion, to know for certain that he's really conscientious !"
Her own views of every question, and her correction of every-
thing that was said to which she was opposed. Miss Dartle insinu-
ated in the same way : sometimes, I could not conceal fi'om myself,
with great power, though in contradiction even of Steeiforth. An
instance happened before dinner was done. Mi-s. Steerforth speak-
ing to me about my intention of going down into Suft'olk, I said at
hazard how glad I should be, if Steerforth would only go there with
me ; and explaining to him that I was going to see my old nurse,
and Mr. Peggotty's family, I reminded him of the boatman whom
he had seen at school.
" Oh ! That blutf fellow 1" said Steerforth. " He had a sou with
him, hadn't he ?"
" No. That was his nephew," I replied ; " whom he adopted,
though, as a son. He has a very pretty little niece too, whom he
adopted as a daughter. In short, his house (or rather his boat, for
he lives in one, on dry land) is full of people who are objects of his
generosity and kindness. You would be delighted to see that
household."
" Should I ?" said Steerforth. " Well, I think I should. I must
see what can be done. It would be worth a journey — not to men-
tion the pleasure of a journey with you, Daisy, — to see that sort of
people together, and to make one of 'em."
My heart leaped with a new hope of pleasure. But it was in
reference to the tone in which he had spoken of " that sort of peo-
ple," that Miss Dartle, whose sparkling eyes had been watchful of
us, now broke in again.
" Oh, but, really ? Do tell me. Are they, though ?" she said.
" Are they what ? And are who what ?" said Steerforth.
" That sort of people. — Are they really animals and clods, and
beings of another order ? I want to know so nmch."
" Why, there's a pretty wide separation between them and us,"
said Steerforth, with inditference. " They are not to be expected to
be as sensitive as we are. Their delicacy is not to 1x5 shocked, or
hurt very easily. They are wonderfully Nnrtuous, I dare say — some
people contend for that, at least ; and I am sure I don't want tc
840 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
contradict tliem — but they have not very fine natures, and they
may be thankful that, hke their coarse rough skins, they are not
easily wounded."
" Really !" said Miss Dartle. " Well, I don't know, now, when I
have been better pleased than to hear that. It's so consoling ! It's
such a delight to know that, when they suffer, they don't feel !
Sometimes I have been quite uneasy for that sort of people ; but
now I shall just dismiss the idea of them, altogether. Live and
learn. I had my doubts, I confess, but now they're cleared up. I
didn't know, and now I do know ; and that shows the advantage
of asking — don't it ?"
I beheved that Steerforth had said what he had, in jest, or to
draw Miss Dartle out ; and I expected him to say as much when
she was gone, and we two were sitting before the fire. But he
merely asked me what I thought of her.
" She is very clever, is she not ?" I asked.
" Clever ! She brino-s evervthinjr to a arrindstone," said Steer-
forth, " and sharpens it, as she has sharpened her own face and
figure these years past. She has worn herself away by constant
sharpening. She is all edge."
" What a remarkable scar that is upon her lip !" I said.
Steerforth's face fell, and he paused a moment.
" Why, the fiict is," he returned, " — / did that."
" By an unfortunate accident !"
" No. I was a young boy, and she exasperated me, and I
threw a hammer at her. A promising young angel I must have
been !"
I was deeply sorry to have touched on such a painful theme, but
that was useless now.
" She has borne the mark ever since, as you see," said Steerforth ;
" and she '11 bear it to her grave, if she ever rests in one — though
I can hardly believe she will ever rest anywhere. She was the ijio-
therless child of a sort of cousin of my father's. He died one day.
My mother, who was then a widow, brought her here to be company
tf3 her. She has a couple of thousand pounds of her own, and saves
the interest of it eveiy year, to add to the principal. There's the
history of Miss Rosa Dartle for you."
D A V [ D - C 0 P P E R F 1 E L D . 341
" And I have ik> doubt she loves you hke a brother," said I.
" Humpli I" retorted Steerforth, looking at the fire. " Some
brothers are not loved overmuch ; and some love — but help your-
self, Copperfield ! We '11 drink the daisies of the field, in compli-
ment to you ; and the hlies of the valley that toil not, neither do
they spin, in compliment to me — the more shame for me !" A
moody smile that had overspread his features cleared off as he said
this merrily, and he was his own fi-ank winning self again.
I could not help glancing at the scar with a painful interest when
we went in to tea. It was not long before I observed that it was the
most susceptible part of her face, and that, when she turned pale,
that mark altered first, and became a dull, lead-coloured streak,
lenorthenino; out to its full extent, like a mark in invisible ink brouo-ht
to the fire. There was a httle altercation between her and Steerforth
about a cast of the dice at backgammon — when I thought her, for
one moment, in a storm of rage ; and then I saw it start forth hke
the old writing on the wall.
' It was no matter of wonder to me to find Mrs. Steerforth de-
voted to her son. She seemed to be able to speak or think about
nothing else. She showed me his picture as an infant, in a locket,
with some of his baby-hair in it ; she showed me his picture as he
had been when I first knew him ; and she wore at her breast his
picture as he was now. All the letters he had ever written to her,
she kept in a cabinet near her own chair by the fire ; and she would
have read me some of them, and I should have been very glad to
hear them too, if he had not interposed, and coaxed her out of the
design.
" It was at Mr. Creakle's, my son tells me, that you first became
acquainted," said Mrs. Steerforth, as she and I were talking at one
table, while they i>layed backgammon at another. " Indeed, I recol-
lect his speaking, at that time, of a pupil younger than himself who
had taken his fancy there ; but y4'ur name, £is you may suppose, has
not lived in my memory."
" He was very generous and noble to me in those days, I assure
you, ma'am," said I, " and I stood in need of such a friend. I should
have been quite crushed without him.
" He is always generous and noble." •^aid Mrs. Steerforth, proudly.
842 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
1 subscribed to this ^vith all my lieart, God knows. She knew I
did ; for the stateliness of her manner already abated towards me,
except when she spoke in praise of him, and then her air was always
lofty.
" It was not a fit school generally for my son," said she ;, " far
from it ; but there were particular circumstances to be considered at
the time, of more importance even than that selection. My son's
high spirit made it desirable that he should be placed with some
man who felt its superiority, and would be content to bow hmiseJ
before it ; and we found such a man there."
I knew that, knowing the fellow. And yet I did not despise him
the more for it, but thought it a redeeming quality in him — if he
could be allowed any grace for not resisting one so irresistible as
Steerforth.
"My son's great capacity was tempted on, there, by a feeling of
voluntary emulation and conscious pride," the fond lady went on to
say. " He would have risen against all constraint ; but he found
himself the monarch of the place, and he haughtily determined to be
worthy of his station. It was like himself."
I echoed with all my heart and soul, that it was like himself.
" So my son took, of his own will, and on no compulsion, to the
sourse in which he can always, when it is his pleasure, outstrip every
competitor," she pursued. " My son informs me, Mr. Copperfield,
that you were quite devoted to him, and that when you met yester-
day you made yourself known to him with teai*s of joy. I should be
an affected woman if I made any pretence of being surprised by my
son's inspiring such emotions ; but I cannot be indifferent to any one
who is so sensible of his merit, and I am very glad to see you here,
and can assure you that he feels an unusual friendship for you, and
that you may rely on his protection."
Miss Dartle played backgammon as eagerly as she did everything
else. If I had seen her, first, at the board, I should have fancied
that her figure had got thin, and her eyes had got large, over that
pui-suit, and no other in the world. But I am very much mistaken
if she missed a word of this, or lost a look of mine as I received it
with the utmost pleasure, and, honoured by Mrs. Steerforth's ct)nfi-
deuce, felt older than I had done since I left. Canterbury.
DAVID COPPER FIELD. 313
When tie evening was pretty far spent, and a tray of glasses and
decanters came in, Steerforth promised, over the fire, that he would
seriously think of going down into the country with me. Thero
was no hurry, he said ; a week hence would do ; and his mother
hospitably said the same. While we were talking, he more than
once called me Daisy ; which brought Miss Dartle out again.
" But really, Mr. Copperfield," she asked, " is it a nick-name ?
And why does he give it you ? Is it — eh ? — because he thinks you
young and innocent ? I am so stupid in these things."
I coloured in replying that I believed it was.
" Oh," said Miss> Dai-tle. " Now I am glad to know that ! I ask
for information, and I am glad to know it. He thinks you young
and innocent ; and so you are his friend. Well, that 's quite
dehghtful !"
She went to bed soon after this, and Mrs. Steerforth retired too.
Steerforth and I, after lingering for half an hour over the fire, talking
about Traddles and all the rest of them at old Salem House, went
up-stairs together. Steerforth's room was next to mine, and I went
in to look at it. It was a picture of comfort, full of easy chairs,
cushions and footstools, worked by his mother's hand, and with no
Bort of thing omitted that could help to render it complete. Finally,
her handsome features looked down on her darhng from a [)ortrait
on the wall, as if it were even something to her that her hkeness
should watch him while he slept.
I found the fire burning clear enough in my room by this time,
and the curtains drawn before the windows and round the bed,
giving it a very snug appearance. I sat down in a great chair upon
the hearth to meditate on my happiness ; and had enjoyed the
contemplation of it for some time, when I found a likeness of Miss
Dartle looking eagerly at me from above the chimney-piece.
It was a startling likeness, and necessarily had a startling look.
The painter hadn't made the scar, but / made it ; and there it
was, coming and going ; now confined to the upper lip as I had
Been it at dinner, and now showing the whole extent of the wound
inflicted by the hammer, as I had seen it when she was passionate.
I wondered peevishly why they couldn't put her anywhere else
instead of quartering her on me. To get rid of her, I undressed
844 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
quickl}', extinguished my light, and went to bed. But, as I fell
asleep, I could not forget that she was still there looking, " Is it
really, though ? I want to know ;" and when I awoke in the night,
I found that I was uneasily asking all sorts of people in my dreams
whether it really was or not — without knowing what I meant.
CHAPTER XXI.
There was a servant in that house, a man who, I understood, was
usually with Steerforth, and had come into his service at the Univer-
sity, who was in appearance a pattern of respectability. I believe
there never existed in his station a more respectable-looking man.
He was taciturn, soft-footed, very quiet in his manner, deferential,
observant, always at hand when wanted, and never near when not
wanted ; but his great claim to consideration was his respectability.
He had not a pliant face, he had rather a stiff neck, rather a tight
smooth head with short hair clinging to it at the sides, a soft way of
speaking, with a peculiar habit of whispering the letter S so dis-
tinctly, that he seemed to use it oftener than any other man ; but
every peculiarity that he had he made respectable. If his nose had
been upside-down, he would have made that respectable. He sur-
romided himself with an atmosphere of respectability, and walked
secure in it. It would have been next to impossible to suspect him
of anything wrong, he was so thoroughly respectable. Nobody
could have thought of putting him in a livery, he was so highly respec-
table. To have imposed any derogatory work ujDon him, would
have been to inflict a wanton insult on the feelings of a most respec-
table man. And of this, I noticed the women-servants in the house-
hold were so intuitively conscious, that they always did such work
themselves, and generally while he read the paper by the pantry
fire.
Such a self-contained man 1 1 .ever saw. But in that quality, as
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 345
in ever}' other he possessed, he only seemed to be the more respec-
table. Even the fact that no one knew his Christian name, seemed
to form a part of his resj)ectability. Nothing could be objected against
his surname Littimer, by which he was known. Peter might have
been hanged, or Tom transported ; but Littimer was perfectly
respectable.
It was occasioned, I suppose, by the reverend nature of respecta-
bility in the abstract, but I felt particularly young in this man's
presence. How old he was himself I could not guess — and that again
went to his credit on the same score ; for in the calmness of respec-
tability he might have numbered fifty years as well as thirty.
Littimer was in my room in the morning before I was up, to bring
me that reproachful shaving-water, and to put out my clothes.
When I undrew the curtains and looked o\jt of bed, I saw him, in
an equable temperature of respectability, unaflfected by the east wind
of January, and not even breathing frostily, standing my boots right
and left in the first dancing position, and blowing specks of du^t utf
my coat as he laid it down hke a baby.
I gave him good morning, and asked him what o'clock it was. He
took out of his pocket tlie most respectable hunting-watch I ever
saw, and preventing the spring with his thumb from opening far,
looked in at the face, as if he were consulting an oracular oyster
shut it up again, and said, if I pleased, it was half-past eight.
" Mr. Steerforth will be glad to hear how you have rested, sir."
" Thank you," said I, " very well indeed. Is Mr. Steerforth quite
well ?"
" Thank you, sir, Mr. Steerforth is tolerably well." Another of
his characteristics, — no use of superlatives. A cool calm medium
always.
" Is there anything more I can have the honour of doing for you,
sir ? The warning-bell will ring at nine ; the family take breakfast
at half-past nine."
" Nothing, I thank you."
" I thank you, sir, if you please ;" and with that, and with a little
.nclination of his head when he passed the bedside, as an apology for
correcting me, he went out, shutting the door as delicately as if I
Lad just fallen into a sweet sleep on which my life depended.
846 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Every morning we had exactly this convei-sation ; never any more,
and never any less ; and yet, invariably, however far I might have
been lifted out of myself over-night, and advanced towards maturer
years, by Steerforth's companionship, or Mrs. Steerforth's confidence,
or Miss Dartle's conversation, in the presence of this most respecta-
ble man 1 became, as our smaller poets sing, "a boy again."
He got horses for us ; and Steeiforth, who knew every thing, gave
me lessons in riding. He provided foils for us, and Steerforth gave
me lessons in fencing — gloves, and I began, of the same master, to
improve in boxing. It gave me no manner of concern that Steerforth
should find me a novice in these sciences, but I never could bear to show
my want of skill before the respectable Littimer. I had no reason
to believe that Littimer understood such arts himself; he never led
me to suppose anything of the kind, by so much as the vibration of
one of his respectable eyelashes ; yet whenever he was by, while we
were practising, I felt myself the greenest and most inexperienced of
mortals.
I am particular about this man, because he made a particular
effect on me at that time, and because of what took place thereafter.
The week passed away in a most dehghtful manner. It passed
japidly, as may be supposed, to one entranced as I was ; and yet it
gave me so many occasions for knoT\ing Steerforth better, and
admiring him more in a thousand respects, that at its close I seemed
to have been with him for a much longer time. A dashing way
he had of treating me hke a play-thing, was more agreeable to
me than any behaviour he could have adopted. It reminded
me of our old acquaintance ; it seemed the natural sequel of it ; it
showed me that he was unchanged ; it relieved me of any uneasiness
I might have felt, in comparing my merits with his, and measuring
my claims upon his friendship by any equal standard ; above all, it
was a famihar, unrestrained, affectionate demeanour that he used
towards no one else. As he had treated me at school differently
from all the rest, I joyfully believed that he treated me in life unlike
any other friend he had. I believed that I was nearer to his heart
than any other friend, and my own heart warmed with attachment
to him.
He made up his mind to go with me into the country, and the
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 847
day arrived for our departure. He had leen doubtful at first
whether to take Littimer or not, but decided to leave him at home.
The respectable creature, satisfied with his lot whatever it was, ar-
ranged our portmanteaus on the little carriage that was Xo take us
into Loncbn, as if they were intended to defy the shocks of ages ;
and received my modestly proffered donation with perfect tranquillity.
We bade adieu to Mrs. Steerforth and Miss Dartle, with many
thanks on my part, and much kindness on the devoted mother's.
The last thing I saw was Littimer's unruffled eye ; fraught, as I fan-
cied, with the silent conviction that I was very young indeed.
What I felt, in returning so auspiciously to the old familiar places,
I shall not endeavour to describe. We went down by the Mail. I
was so concerned, I recollect, even for the honour of Yarmouth, that
when Steerforth said, as we drove through its dark streets to the inn,
that, as well as he could make out, it was a good, queer, out-of-the-
way kind of hole, I was highly pleased. We went to bed on our
arrival (I observed a pair of dirty shoes and gaiters in connexion
with my old fi-iend the Dolphin as we passed that door), and break-
fasted late in the morning. Steerforth, who was in great spirits, had
been stroUing about the beach before I was up, and had made ac-
quaintance, he said, with half the boatmen in the place. Moreover
he had seen, in the distance, what he was sure must be the identical
house of Mr. Peggotty, with smoke coming out of the chimney ; and
had had a great mind, he told me, to walk in and swear he was my-
self grown out of knowledge.
" When do you propose to introduce me there, Daisy ?" he said,
** 1 am at your disposal. Make your own arrangements."
" Why, I was thinking that this evening would be a good time,
Steerforth, when they are all sitting round the fire. I should hke
you to see it when it's snug, it's such a curious place."
" So be it !" returned Steerforth. " This evening."
"I shall not give them any notice that we are here, you know,''
said I, dehghted. " We must take them by surprise."
" Oh, of course ! It's no fun," said Steerforth, " unless we take
them by surprise. Let us see the natives in their aboriginal con-
dition."
" Though they are that sort of people that you mentioned," I re-
turned.
a48 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Aha ! What ! you recollect my skirmishes with Rosa, do you ?**
he exclaimed with a quick .look. " Confound the girl, I am half
afraid of her. She's like a goblin to me. But never mind her.
Now what are you going to do ? You are going to see your nurse,
I suppose ?"
" Why, yes," I said, " I must see Peggotty first of all."
" Well," replied Steerforth, looking at his watch. " Suppose I
deliver you up to be cried over for a couple of hours. Is that long
enough ?"
I answered, laughing, that I thought we might get through it iu
that time, but that he must come also ; for he w^ould find that his
renown had preceded him, and that he was almost as gTcat a per-
sonage as I was.
" I'll come anywhere you like," said Steerforth, " or do anything
you like. Tell me where to come to ; and in two hours I'll produce
myself in any state you please, sentimental or comical."
I gave him minute directions for finding the residence of Mr
Barkis, carrier to Bluuderstone and elsewhere, and, on this under-
standing, w^eut out alone. There was a sharp bracing air ; the
ground was dry ; the sea was crisp and clear ; the sun was diffusing
abundance of hght, if not much warmth ; and everything was fresh
and lively. I was so fresh and lively myself, in the pleasure of being
there, that I could have stopped the people in the streets and shaken
hands with them.
The streets looked small, of course. The streets that we have only
seen as children, always do, I beheve, when we go back to them.
But I had forgotten nothing in them, and found nothing changed,
until I came to Mr. Omer's shop. Omer and Joram was now wTit-
ten up, where Omer used to be ; but the inscription. Draper,
Tailor, Haberdasher, Funeral Furnisher, &c., remained as it
was.
My footsteps seemed to tend so naturally to the shop-door, after
1 had read these words from over the way, that I went across the
road and looked in. There was a pretty woman at the back of the
shop, dancing a little child in her arms, while another little fellow
clung to her api'on. I had no difficulty in recognising either Minnie
or Minnie's children. The glass-door of the parlor was not open
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 849
but in the workshop across the yard I could faintly hear the old
tune playing, as if it had never left otf.
" Is Mr. Omer at home ?" said I, entering. " I should like to see
him, for a moment, if he is."
" Oh yes, sir, he is at home," said Minnie ; " this weather don't
suit his asthma out of doors. Joe, call your grandfather !"
The little fellow, who was holding her apron, gave such a lusty
shout, that the sound of it made him bashful, and he buried his face
in her skirts, to her great admiration. I heard a heavy puffing and
blowing coming towards us, and soon Mr. Omer, shorter-winded than
of yore, but not much older-looking, stood before me.
" Servant, sir," said Mr. Omer. " What can I do for you, sir ?"
** You can shake hands with me, Mr. Omer, if you please," said I,
putting out my own. " You were very good-natured to me once,
when I am afraid I didn't show that I thought so."
" Was I though?" returned the old man. "I'm glad to heai* it,
but I don't remember when. Are you sure it was me ?"
" Quite."
" I think my memory has got as short as my breath," said Mr.
Omer, looking at me and shaking his head ; " for I don't remember
you."
" Don't you remember your coming to the coach to meet me, and
my having breakfast here, and our riding out to Blunderstone toge-
ther : you, and I, and Mi-s. Joram, and Mr. Joram too — who wasn't
her husband then ?"
" Why, Lord bless my soul !" exclaimed Mr. Omer, after being
thrown by his surprise into a fit of coughing, " you don't say so !
Minnie, my dear, you recollect? Dear me, yes — the party was a
lady, I think f
" My mother," I rejoined.
" To — be — sure," said Mr. Omer, touching my waistcoat with his
forefinger, " and there was a little child too ! There Wc\s two parties.
The little party was laid along with the other party. Over at
Blunderstone it was, of couree. Dear me ! And how have you been
smc8?"
Very well, I thanked him, as I hoped he had been too.
" Oh ! nothing to grumble at, you know," said Mr. Omer. " I
850 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
find my breath gets short, but it seldom ^ets longer as a man gets
older. I take it as it comes, and make the most of it. That's
the best way, ain't it ?"
Mr. Omer coughed again, in consequence of laughing, and was
assisted out of his fit by his daughter, who now stood close beside us,
dancing her smallest child on the counter.
" Dear me !" said Mr. Omer. " Yes, to be sure. Two parties !
Why, in that very ride, if you '11 believe me, the day was named for
my Minnie to marry Joram. ' Do name it, sir,' says Joram. ' Yes,
do, father,' said Minnie. And now he's come into the business. And
look here ! The youngest !"
Minnie laughed, and stroked her banded hair upon her temples, as
her father put one of his fat fingei-s into the hand of the child she was
dancing on the counter.
" Two parties, of course !" said Mr. Omer, nodding his head retro-
spectively. " Ex-actly so ! And Joram's at work, at this minute,
on a grey one with silver nails, not this measurement" — the mea-
surement of the dancing child upon the counter — " by a good two
inches. — Will you take something ?"
I thanked him, but dechned.
" Let me see," said Mr. Omer. " Barkis's the carrier's wife — Peg-
• gotty's the boatman's sister — she had something to do with your
family ? She was in service there, sure ?"
My answering in the affirmative gave him great satisfaction.
" I believe my breath will get long next, my memory's getting so
much so," said Mr. Omer. " Well, sir, we've got a young relation
of hers here under articles to us, that has as elegant a taste in the
dress-making business — I assure you I don't believe there's a
Duchess in England can touch her." ^
" Not httle Em'ly ?" said 1, involuntarily.
" Em'ly's her name," said Mr. Omer, " and she's Httle too. But.
if you '11 believe me, she has such a face of her own that half th&
women in this town are mad against her."
" Nonsense, father !" cried Minnie.
" My dear," said Mr. Omer, " I don't say it 's the case with you,''^
winking at me, " but I say that half the women in Yarmouth — aL 1
and in five miles round — are mad against that girl."
DAVID COrPERFIELD. 851
" Then she should have kept to her own station n f fe, father,"
said Minnie, " and not have given them any hold to uilk about her
and then thev couldn't have done it."
"Couldn't have done it, my dear !" retorted Mr. Omer. " Couldn't
have done it ! Is that your knowledge of life ? What is there that
any woman couldn't do, that she shouldn't do — especially on the
subject of another woman's good looks ?"
I really thought it was all over with Mr. Omer, after he had
uttered this libellous pleasantry. He coughed to that extent, and
his breath eluded all his attempts to recover it with that obstinacy,
that I fully expected to see his head go down behind the counter,
and his little black breeches, with the rusty little bunches of ribbons
at the knees, come quivering up in a last ineflfectual struggle. At
lengtli, however, he got better, though he still panted hard, and was
so exhausted that he was obliged to sit on the stool of the shop-desk.
"You see," he said, wiping his head, and breathing with dif-
ficulty, " she hasn't taken much to any companions here ; she hasn't
taken kindly to any particular acquaintances and friends, not to men-
tion sweethearts. In consequence, an ill-natured story got about,
that Em'ly wanted to be a lady. Now my opinion is, that it came
into circulation principally on account of her sometimes saying, at
the school, that if she was a lady she would like to do so and so for
her uncle — don't you see ? — and buy him such and such fine
things."
" I assure you, Mr. Omer, she has said so to me," I returned
eagerly, " when we were both children."
Mr. Omer nodded his head and rubbed his chin. " Just so. Then
out of a very little, she could dress herself, you see, better than most
others could out of a deal, and that made things unpleasant. More-
over, she was rather what might be called wayward — I'll go so far
as to say what I should call wayward myself," said Mr. Omer, —
"didn't know her own mind :uite — a little spoiled — and couldn't, at
first, exactly bind herself down. No more than that wjis ever said
aiiainst her, Minnie ?"
" No, father," said Mrs. Joram. " That's the worst, I believe."
" So when she got a situation," said Mr. Omer, " to keep a frac-
tious old lady company, they didn't very well agree, and she didn't
352 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
stop. At last she came here, apprenticed for three years. Nearly
two of 'em are over, and she has been as good a girl as ever was.
Worth any six ! Minnie, is she worth any six, now ?"
" Yes, father," replied Minnie. " Never say / detracted from
her !"
" Veiy good," said Mr. Omer. " That's right. And so, joung
gentleman," he added, after a few moments' further rubbing of his
chin, " that you may not consider me long-winded as well as short-
breatbed, I believe that's all about it."
As they had spoken in a subdued tone, while speaking of Em'ly,
I had no doubt that she was near. On my asking now, if that were
not so, Mr. Omer nodded yes, and iiodded towards the door of the
parlor. My hurried inquiiy if I might peep in, was answered with
a free permission ; and, looking through the glass, I saw her sitting
at her work. I saw her, a most beautiful little creature, with the
cloudless blue eyes, that had looked into my childish heart, turned
laughingly upon another child of Minnie's who was playing near
her ; with enough of wilfulness in her bright face to justify what
I had heard; with much of the old capricious coyness lurking
in it ; bst with nothing in her pretty looks, I am sure, but what was
meant for goodness and for happiness, and what was on a good and
happy course.
The tune across the yard that seemed as if it never had left oflf —
alas ! it was the tune that never does leave off — was beating, softly,
all the while.
" Wouldn't you like to step in," said Mr. Omer, " and speak to
her ! Walk in and speak to her, sir ! Make yourself at home !"
I was too bashful to do so then — I was afraid of confusing her,
and I was no less afraid of confusing myself : but I informed myself
of the hour at which she left of an evening, in order that our visit
might be timed accordingly ; and taking leave of Mr. Omer, and his
pretty daughter, and her little children, went away to my dear old
Peggotty's.
Here she was, in the tiled kitchen, cooking dinner ! The moment
I knocked at the door she opened it, and asked me what i pleased
to want. I looked at her with a smile, but she gave me no smile in
return. I had never ceased to write to her, but it must have been
seven yeai-s since we had met.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 863
"Is Mr. Barkis at home, ma'am?" I said, feigning to speak
roughly to her.
" He 's at home, sir," returned Peggotty, " but he 's bad abed
with the rheumatics."
" Don't he go over to BUmderstone now ?" I asked.
" When he 's well, he do," she answered.
" Do you ever go there, Mrs. Barkis ?"
She looked at me more attentively, and I noticed a quick move-
ment of her hands towards each other.
" Because I want to ask a question about a house there, that they
call the — what is it ? — the Rookery," said L
She took a step backwards, and put out her hands m an unde-
cided frightened way, as if to keep me ofl^
" Peggotty !" I cried to her.
She cried, " My darhng boy !" and we both burst into tears, and
were locked in one another's arms.
What extravagances she committed ; what laughing and crying
over me ; what pride she showed, what joy, what sorrow that she
whose pride and joy I might have been, could never hold me in a
fond embrace ; I have not the heart to tell. I was troubled with
no misgiving that it was young in me to respond to her emotions.
I had never laughed and cried in all my life, I dare say — not evea
to her — more fi-oely than I did that morning.
" Barkis will be so glad," said Peggotty, wiping her eyes with her
apron, " that it 'ill do him more good than pints of hniment. May
I go and tell him you are here ? Will you come up and see him, my
dear ?"
Of course I would. But Peggotty could not get out of the room
as easily as she meant to, for as often as she got to the door and
looked round at me, she came back again to have another laugh
and another cry upon my shoulder. At last, to make the matter
easier, I went up-stairs with her ; and having waited outside for a
minute, while she said a word of preparation to Mr. Barkis, presented
myself before that invalid.
He received me with absolute enthusiasm. He was too rheuma-
tic to be shaken hands with, but he begged me to shake the tassel
on the top of his nightcap, which I did most cordially. When I sat
22
854 DAVID COPPEK^IELD.
down by the side of the bed, he said that it did him a world of good
to feel as if he was driving me on the Blunderstone road again. As
he lay in bed, face upward, and so covered, with that exception, that
he seemed to be nothing but a face — hke a conventional cherubim^
— he looked the queerest' object I ever beheld.
" What name was it, as I wrote up in the cart, sir ?" said Mr.
Barkis, vdth a slow rheumatic smile.
" Ah ! Mr. Barkis, we had some grave talks about that matter,
hadn't we ?"
" I was willin' a long time, sir ?" said Mr. Barkis.
" A long time," said I.
" And I don't regret it," said Mr. Barkis. " Do you remember
what you told me once, about her making all the apple pasties and
doing all the cooking ?"
" Yes very well," I returned.
" It was as true," said Mr. Barkis, " as turnips is. It was as true,'*
said Mr. Barkis, nodding his nighteap, which was his only means of
emphasis, " as taxes is. And nothing 's truer than them."
Mr. Barkis turned his eyes upon me, as if for my assent to this
result of his reflections in bed ; and I gave it.
" Nothing 's truer than them," repeated Mr. Barkis ; " a man as
poor as I am finds that out in his mind when he 's laid up. I 'm a
very poor man, sir."
" I am sorry to hear it, Mr. Barkis."
"A very poor man, indeed I am," said Mr. Barkis.
Here his right hand came slowly and feebly from under the bed-
clothes, and with a purposeless uncertain grasp took hold of a stick
which was loosely tied to the side of the bed. After some poking
about with this instrument, in the course of which his face assumed
a variety of distracted expressions, Mr, Barkis poked it against a box,
an end of which had been visible to mo all the time. Tiien his face
became composed.
" Old clothes," said Mr. Barkis.
"Oh!" said I.
" I wish it was Money, sir," said Mr. Barkis.
" I wish it was, indeed," said I.
" But it ain't," said Mr. Barkis, opening both his eyes as wide aa
he possibly could.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 356
I expressed myself quite sure of that, and Mr. Barkis, turning his
eyes more gently to his wife, said :
" She's the usefullest and best of women, C. P. Barkis. All the
praise that any one can give to OP. Barkis, she deserves, and more I
My dear, you'll get a dinner to-day, for company ; something good
to eat and drink, will you ?"
I should have protested against this unnecessary demonstration in
my honour, but that I saw Peggotty, on the opposite side of the bed,
extremely anxious that I should not. So I held my peace.
" I have got a trifle of money somewhere about me, my dear,'^
said Mr. Barkis, " but I'm a little tired. If you and Mr. David will
leave me for a short nap, I'll try and find it when I wake."
We left the room, in comphance with this request. When we got
outside the door, Peggotty inforjned me that Mr. Barkis, being now
" a little nearer" than he used to be, always resorted to this same
device before producing a single coin from his store ; and that he
endured unheard-of agonies in crawling out of bed alone, and taking
it fi-om that unlucky box. In effect, we presently heard him uttering
suppressed groans of the most dismal natui-e, as this magpie proceeding
racked him in every joint ; but while Peggotty's eyes were full of
compassion for him, she said his generous impulse would do him
good, and it was better not to check it. So he groaned on, until he
had got into bed again, suftering, I have no doubt, a martyrdom ;
and then called us in, pretending to have just woke up from a re-
freshing sleep, and to produce a guinea from under his pillow. His
satisfaction in which happy imposition on us, and in having preserved
the impenetrable secret of the box, appeared to be a sufficient com-
pensation to him for all his tortures.
I prepared Peggotty for Stcerforth's arrival, and it was not long
before he came. I am persuaded she knew no difference between
his having been a personal benefactor of hei-s, and a kind friend to
me, and that she would have received him with the utmost gratitude
and devotion in any case. But his easy, spirited, good humour ; his
genial manner, his handsome looks, his natural gift of adapting him-
self to whomsoever he pleased, and making direct, when he cared to
do it, to the main point of interest in anybody's heart ; bound her
to him wholly in five minutes. His manner to me, alone, would
856 DAVID COPPER FIELD.
have won her. But, tlirougli all these causes combined, I sinceielj
believe she had a kind of adoration for him before he left the house
that night.
He stayed there with nie to dinner — if I were to say willingly, I
should not half express how readily and gaily. He went into Mr.
Barkis's room like light and air, brightening and refreshing it as if
he were healthy weather. There was no noise, no eflfort, no con-
sciousness, in anything he did ; but in everything an indescribable
lightness, a seeming impossibility of doing anything else, or doing
anything better, which was so graceful, so natural, and agreeable,
that it overcomes me, even now, in the remembrance.
We made merry in the little parlor, where the Book of Martyrs,
unthumbed since my time, was laid out upon the desk as of old, and
where I now turned over its terrific pictures, remembering the old
sensations they had awakened, but not feeling them. When Peg-
gotty spoke of what she called my room, and of its being ready for
me at night, and of her hoping I would occupy it, before I could so
much as look at Steerforth, hesitating, he was possessed of the whole
case.
" Of course," he said, " you'll sleep here, while we stay, and I
shall sleep at the hotel."
" ^ut to bring you so far," I returned, " and to separate, seems
bad companionship, Steerforth."
" Why, in the name of Heaven, where do you naturally belong !"
he said. " What is ' seems,' compared to that !" It was settled at
once.
He maintained all his delightful qualities to the last, until we
started forth, at eight o'clock, for Mr. Peggotty's boat. Indeed, they
were more and more brightly exhibited as ti.;;' hours went on ; for I
thought even then, and I have no doubt now, that the consciousness
of success in his determination to please, inspired him with a new
delicacy of }>erception, and made it, subtle as it was, more easy to
him. If any one had told me, then, that all this was a brilliant
game, played for the excitement of the moment, for the employment
of high spirits, in the thoughtless love of superiority, in a mere
wasteful careless course of winning what was worthless to him, and
next minute thrown away — I say, if any one had told me such a lie
DAVID COPTERFIELD. 357
that night, I wonder in what manner of receiving it my indignation
would have found a vent !
Probably only in an increase, had that been possible, of the
romantic feelings of fidelity and friendship with which I walked
beside him, over the dark wintry sands, towards the old boat ; the
wind sighing around us even more mournfully, than it had sighed
and moaned upon the night when I first darkened Mr. Peggotty's
door.
" This is a wild kind of place, Steerforth, is it not ?"
" Dismal enough in the dark," he said ; " and the sea roars as if
it were huugiy for us. Is that the boat, where I see a hght
yonder ?"
" That's the boat," said I.
" And it's the same I saw this morning," he returned. " I came
straight to it, by instinct, I suppose."
We said no more as we approached the light, but made softly for
the door. I laid my hand upon the latch ; and whispering Steer-
forth to keep close to me, went in.
A murmur of voices had been audible on the outside, and, at the
moment of our entrance, a clajjping of hands : which latter noise, I
was surprised to see, proceeded from the generally disconsolate Mi-s.
Gummidge. But Mi-s. Gummidge was not the only person there,
who was unusually excited. Mr. Peggotty, his face lighted up with
uncommon satisfaction, and laughing with all his might, held his
rough arms wide open, as if for little Em'ly to run into them ; Ilam,
with a mixed expression in his face of admiration, exultation, and a
lumbering sort of bashfulness that sat upon him very well, held little
Em'ly by the hand, as if he wore presenting her to Mr. Peggotty ;
httle Em'ly herself, blushing and shy, but dehghted with Mr. Peg-
gotty's delight, as her joyous eyes expressed, was stopped by our
entrance (for she saw us fii*st) in the very act of springing fi'om Ham
to nestle in Mr. Peggotty's embrace. In the first ghmpse we had
of them all, and at the moment of our passing from the dark cold
night into the warm hght room, this was the way in which they
were all employed : Mrs. Gummidge in the back ground, clapping
her handt hke a madwoman.
:f
858 DAVID COrPERFIELD.
The little picture was so instantaneously dissolved by our going
in, tbat one might have doubted whether it had ever been. I was
in the midst of the astonished family, face to face with Mr. Peggotty,
and holding out my hand to him, when Ham shouted :
" Mas'r Davy ! It's Mas'r Davy ! "
In a moment we were all shaking hands with one another, and
asking one another how we did, and telling one another how glad
■we were to meet, and all talking at once. Mr. Peggotty was so
proud and overjoyed to see us, that he did not know what to say or
do, but kept over and over again shaking hands with me, and then
with Steerforth, and then with me, and then ruffling his shaggy hair
all over his head, and laughing with such glee and triumph, that it
was a treat to see him.
" Why, that you two gent'lmen — gent'lmen growed — should come
to this here roof to-night, of all nights in my life," said Mr. Peg-
gotty, " is such a thing as never happened afore, I do rightly be-
lieve ! Em'ly, my darling, come here ! Come here, my little witch !
There's Mas'r Davy's friend, my dear ! There's the gent'lman as
you've heerd on, Em'ly. He comes to see you, along with Mas'r
Davy, on the brightest night of your uncle's life as ever was or will
be, Gorm the t'other one, and horroar for it ! "
After delivering this speech all in a breath, and with extraordinary
animation and pleasure, Mr. Peggotty put one of his large hands
rapturously on each side of his niece's face, and kissing it a dozen
times, laid it with a gentle pride and love upon his broad chest, and
patted it as if his hand had been a lady's. Then he let her go ; and
as she ran into the little chamber where I used to sleep, looked
round upon us, quite hot and out of breath with his uncommon satis-
faction.
" If you two gent'lmen — gentl'men growed now, and such gent'l-
men— " said Mr. Peggotty.
"So th'are, so th'are !" cried Ham. "Well said! So th'are.
Mas'r Davy bor — gent'lmen growed — so th'are !"
" If you two gent'lmen, gent'lmen growed," said Mr. Peggotty,
" don't ex-cuse me for being in a state of mind, when you under-
stand matters, I'll arsk your pardon. Em'ly, my dear ! — She knows
en
o
'^\fi^^'/^ix:^'^'-'^f^fr^^'^
V.
Of
DAVID COPPEllFIELD. 359
Pin a going to tell," here his delight broke out again, " and has
made off. Would you be so good as look arter her, Mawther, for a
minute ?"
Mrs. Gummidge nodded and disappeared.
" K this ain't," said Mr. Peggotty, sitting down among us by the
fire, "the brightest night o' my hfe, I'm a shellfish — biled too —
and more I can't say. This here little Em'ly, sir," in a low voice to
Steerforth, " — her as you see a blushing here just now — "
Steerforth only nodded ; but with such a pleased expression of
interest, and of participation in Mr. Peggotty's feehngs, that the lat-
ter answered him as if he had spoken.
" To be sure," said Mr. Peggotty. " That's her, and so she is.
Thankee, sir."
Ham nodded to me several times, as if he would have said so too.
" This here httle Em'ly of ours," said Mr. Peggotty, " has been,
in our house, what I suppose (I 'm a ignorant man, but that's my
belief) no one but a little bright-eyed creetur can be in a house.
..She ain't my child ; I never had one ; but I couldn't love her more.
You understand ! I couldn't do it !"
" I quite understand," said Steerforth.
"I know you do, sir," returned Mr. Peggotty, "and thankee
again. Mas'r Davy, he can remember what she was ; you may
judge for your own self what she is ; but neither of you can't fully
inow what she has been, is, and will be, to my loving art. I am
•Dugh, sir," said Mr. Peggotty, " I am as rough as a Sea Porkypine ;
i)ut no one, unless, mayhap, it is a woman, can know, I think, what
our little Em'ly is to me. And betwixt ourselves," sinking his voice
lower yet, " that woman's name ain't Missis Gummidge neither,
though she has a world of merits."
Mr. Peggotty ruffled his hair again with both hands, as a further
preparation for what he was going to say, and went on with a hand
upon each of his knees.
" There was a certain person as had know'd our Em'ly, from the
time when her father was drownded ; as had seen her constant ;
when a babby, when a young gal, when a woman. Not much of a
person to look at, he warn't," said Mr. Peggotty, " something o' my
own buill — rough — a good deal o' the sou-wester in him — wery
860 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
salt — ^but, on tlie whole, a honest sort of a chap, with his art in the
right place."
I thought I had never seen Ham grin to anything hke the extent
to which he sat grinning at us now.
"What does this here blessed tarpaulin go and do," said Mr.
Peggotty, with his face one high noon of enjoyment, " but he loses
that there art of his to our little Em'ly. He follers her about, he
makes hisself a sort o' servant to her, he loses in a great measure
his relish for his wittles, and in the long run he makes it clear to
me wot's amiss. Now I could wish myself, you see, that our little
Em'ly was in a fair way of being married. I could wish to see her,
at all ewents, under articles to a honest man as had a right to de-
fend her. I don't know how long I may live, or how soon I may
die ; but I know that if I was capsized, any night, in a gale of
wind in Yarmouth Roads here, and was to see the town-lights
shining for the last time over the rollers as I couldn't make no head
against, I could go down quieter for thinking ' There's a man ashore
there, iron-true to my little Em'ly, God bless her, and no wrong can
touch rmy Em'ly while so be as that man lives !' "
Mr. Peggotty, in simple earnestness, waved his right arm, as if
he were waving it at the town-lights for the last time, and then,
exchanging a nod with Ham, whose eye he caught, proceeded as
before.
" Well ! I counsels him to speak to Em'ly. He 's big enough,
but he 's bashfuller than a little un, and he don't hke. So / speak.
* What ! Him P says Em'ly. ' Him that I 've know'd so intimate
so many years, and hke so much ! Oh, Uncle ! I never can have
him. He 's such a good fellow !' I gives her a kiss, and I says no
more to her than ' My dear, you 're right to speak out, you 're to
choose for yourself, you 're as free as a little bird.' Then I aways to
him, and I says, ' I ^vish it could have been so, but it can't. But
you can both be as you was, and wot I say to you is. Be as you
was with her, hke a man.' He says to me, a shaking of my hand,
' I will !' he says. And he was — honorable and manful — for two
year going on, and we was just the same at home here as afore."
Mr. Peggotty's face, which had vai'ied in its expression with the
various stages of his narrative, now resumed all its former triumphaut
DAVID COPPEEFIELD. 361
delight, as he laid a hand upon ray knee and a hand upon Steerforth'a
(previously wetting them both, for the greater emphasis of the
action), and divided the following speech between us :
" All of a sudden, one eveninrr — as it mitrht be to-night — comes
little Em'ly from her work, and him with her ! There ain't so much
in that, you'll say. No, because he takes care on her, like a brother,
arter dark, and indeed afore dark, and at all times. But this tar-
paulin chap, he takes hold of her hand, and he cries out to me,
joyful, ' Look here ! This is to be my little wife !' And she says,
half bold and half shy, and half a laughing and half a crying, ' Yes,
uncle ! If you please.' — If I please !" cried Mr. Peggotty, rolling
his head in an ecstacy at the idea ; " Lord, as if I should do any-
think else ! — ' If you please, I am steadier now, and I have thought
better of it, and I'll be as good a Uttle wife as I can to him, for he's
a dear good fellow !' Tlien Missis Gummidge, she claj)s her hands
like a play, and you come in. There ! the murder's out !" said Mr.
Peggotty — " You come in ! It took place this here present hour ;
and here's the man that'll marry her, the minute she's out of her
time."
Ham staggered, as well he might, under the blow Mr. Peggotty
dealt him in his unbounded joy, as a mark of confidence and friend-
ship ; but feeling called upon to say something to us, he said, with
much faltering and great difficulty :
" She warn't no higher than you was, Mas'r Davy — when you first
come — when I thought what 'she'd grow up to be. I see her grow
up — gent'lmen — like a flower. I'd lay dovni my life for her — Mos'r
Davy — Oh ! most content and cheerful ! She's more to me —
gent'lmen — than — she's all to me that ever I can want, and more
than ever I — than ever I could say. I — I love her true. There
ain't a gent'lman in all the land — nor yet sailing upon all the sea —
that can love his lady more than I love her, though there's many a
common man — would say better — what he meant."
I thought it affecting to see such a sturdy fellow as Ham was now,
trembling in the strength of what he felt for the pretty little creature
who had won his heart. I thought the simple confidence reposed in
us by Mr. Peggotty and by himself, was, in itself, affecting. I was
afi'ected by the story altogether. How far my emotions were
862 DAVID COPrERFIELD.
influenced by the recollections of my childhood, T don't know.
Whether I had come there with any liHgering fancy that I was still
to love httle Em'ly, I don't know. I know that I was rilled with
pleasure by all this; but, at first, with an indescribably sensitive
pleasure, that a very httle would have changed to pain.
Therefore, if it had depended upon me to touch the prevailing
chord among them with any skill, I should have made a poor hand
of it. But it depended upon Steerforth : and he did it with such
addi'ess, that in a few minutes we were all as easy and as happy as it
was possible to be.
" Mr. Peggotty," he said, " you are a thoroughly good fellow, and
deserve to be as happy as you are to-night. My hand upon it !
Ham, I give you joy, my boy. My hand upon that, too ! Daisy,
stir the fii'e, and make it a brisk one ! and Mr. Peggotty, unless you
can induce your gentle niece to come back (for whom I vacate this
seat in the corner,) I shall go. Any gap at your fireside on such a
night — such a gap least of all — I wouldn't make, for the wealth
of the Indies !"
So Mr. Peggotty went into my old room to fetch little Em'ly. At
first little Em'ly didn't like to come, and then Ham went. Presently
they brought her to the fireside, very much confused, and very shy, —
but she soon became more assured when she found how gently and
respectfully Steerforth spoke to her; how skilfully he avoided
anything that would embarrass her ; how he talked to Mr. Peggotty
of boats, and ships, and tides, and fish ; how he referred to me about
the time when he had seen Mr. Peggotty at Salem House ; how
delighted he was with the boat and all belonging to it ; how lightly
and easily he carried on, until he brought us, by degrees, into a
charmed circle, and we were all talking away without any reserve.
Em'ly, indeed, said little all the evening ; but she looked, and
listened, and her face got animated, and she was charming. Steer-
forth told a story of a dismal shipwreck (which arose out of his talk
with Mr. Peggotty), as if he saw it all before him — and little Em'ly 's
eyes were fastened on him all the time, as if she saw it too. He told
us a meriy adventure of his own, as a relief to that, with as much
gaiety as if the narrati^■e were as fresh to him as it was to us — and
little Em'ly laughed until the boat rang with the musical sounds, and
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 363
we all laughed (Steerforth too), in irresistible sympathy with wliat
was so pleasant and light-hearted. He got Mr. Peggotty to sing, or
rather to roar, " When the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do
blow ;" and he sang a sailor's song himself, so pathetically and
beautifully, that I could have almost fancied that the real vnnd
creeping sorrowfully round the house, and murmuring low through
our unbroken silence, was there to listen.
As to Mrs. Gmnmidge, he roused that victim of despondency with
a success never attained by any one else (so Mr. Peggotty informed
me) since the decease of the old one. He left her so little leisure for
being miserable that she said the next day she thought she must
have been bewitched.
But he set up no monopoly of the general attention, or the
conversation. When little Em'ly grew more courageous, and talked
(but still bashfully) across the fire to me, of our old wanderings upon
tlie beach, to pick up shells and pebbles ; and when I asked her if
she recollected how I used to be devoted to her ; and when we both
laughed and reddened, casting these looks back on the pleasant old
times, so unreal to look at now ; he was silent and attentive, and
observed us thoughtfully. She sat, at this time, and all the evening,
on the old locker in her old little corner by the fire — Ham beside
her, where I used to sit. I could not satisfy myself whether it wa<^
in her own little tormenting way, or in a maidenly reserve before us,
that she kept quite close to the wall, and away from him ; but I
observed that she did so, all the evening.
As I remember, it Avas almost midnight when we took our leave.
We had had some biscuit and dried fish for supper, and Steerforth
had produced from his pocket a full flask of Hollands, which we men
(I may say we men, now, without a blush) had emptied. We parted
merrily ; and as they all stood crowded round the door to light us
as far as they could upon our road, I saw the sweet blue eyes of
little Em'ly peeping after us, from behind Ham, and heard her soft
voice calling to us to be careful how we went.
" A most engaging little Beauty !" said Steerforth, taking my arm.
"Well ! It's a quaint place, and they are quaint company, and it's
quite a new sensation to mix with them."
"How fortunate we are, too," I returned, "to have arrived to
864 DAVID COPPERPIELD.
witness their happiness in that intended marriage ! I never saw
people so happy. How dehghtful to see it, and to be made the
sharers in their honest joy, as we have been !"
" That's rather a chuckle-headed fellow for the girl ; isn't he ?'*
said Steerforth.
He had been so hearty with him, and with them all, that I felt a
shock in this unexpected and cold reply. But tarning quickly upon
him, and seeing a laugh in his eyes, I answered, much reheved :
" Ah, Steerforth ! It's well for you to joke about the poor ! You
may skirmish with Miss Dartle, or try to hide your sympathies in
jest from me, but I know better. When I see how perfectly you
understand them, how exquisitely you can enter into happiness like
this plain fisherman's, or humour a love like my old nurse's, I know
that there is not a joy or sorrow, not an emotion, of such people, that
can be indifferent to you. And I admire and love you for it,
Steerforth, twenty times the more !"
He stopped, and, looking in my face, said, " Daisy, I believe you
are in earnest, and are good. I wish we all were !" Next moment
he was gaily singing Mr. Peggotty's song, as we walked at a round
pace back to Yarmouth.
CHAPTER XXII.
SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NEW PEOPLK.
Steerforth and I stayed for more than a fortnight in that part
of the country. We were very much together, I need not say ; but
occasionally we were asunder for some hours at a time. He was a
good sailor, and I was but an indifferent one ; and when he went out
boating with Mr. Peggotty, which was a favorite amusement of liis,
I generally remained ashore. My occupation of Peggottv's suare-
room put a constraint upon me, fi'om which he was free : for, know-
ing how assiduously she attended on Mr. Barkis all day, I did not
like to remain out late at night ; whereas Steerforth, lying at the
Inn, had nothing to consult but his own humour. Thus it came
about, that I heard of his making little treats for the fishermen at Mr.
t*eggotty's house of call, " The Willing Mind," after I was in bed,
and of his being afloat, wrapped in fisherman's clothes, whole moon-
light nights, and coming back when the morning tide was at flood.
By this time, however, I knew that his restless nature and bold
spirits delighted to find a vent in rough toil and hard weather, as in
any other means of excitement that presented itself freshly to him ;
so none of his proceedings surj)rised me.
Another cause of our being sometimes apart, was, that I had
naturally an interest in going over to Blunderstone, and revisiting
the old familiar scenes of my childhood ; while Steerforth, after being
there once, had naturally no great interest in going there again.
Hence, on three or four days that I can at once recal, we went our
several ways after an early breakfast, and met again at a late dinner.
I had no idea how he employed his time in the interval, beyond a
general knowledge that he was very popular in the place, and had
twenty means of actively diverting himself where another man might
not have found one.
366
866 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
For my own part, my occupation in ray solitary pilgiimages was
to recal every yard of the old road as I went along it, and to haunt
the old spots, of which I never tired. I haunted them, as my
memory had often done, and lingered among them as my younger
thoughts had lingered when I was far away. The grave beneath
the tree, where both my parents lay — on which I had looked out,
when it was my father's only, with such curious feelings of compas-
sion, and by which I had stood, so desolate, when it was opened to
receive my pretty mother and her baby — the grave which Peggot-
ty's own faithful care had ever since kept neat, and made a garden
of, I walked near, by the hour. It lay a httle off the church-yard
path, in a quiet corner, not so far removed but I could read the
names upon the stone as I walked to and fro, startled by the sound
of the church-bell when it struck the hour, for it was like a departed
voice to me. My reflections at these times were always associated
with the figure I was to make in life, and the distinguished things I
was to do. My echoing footsteps went to no other tune, but were
as constant to that as if I had come home to build my castles in the
air at a living mother's side.
There were great changes in my old home. The ragged nests, so
long deserted by the rooks, were gone ; and the trees were lopped
and topped out of their remembered shapes. The garden had run wild,
and half the windows of the house were shut up. It was occupied,
but only by a poor lunatic gentleman, and the people who took care
of him. He was always sitting at my little window, looking out into
the church-yard ; and I wondei'ed whether his rambling thoughts ever
went upon any of the fancies that used to occupy mine, on the rosy
mornings when I peeped out of that same little window in my
night-clothes, and saw the sheep quietly feeding in the light of the
rising sun.
Our old neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Grayper, were gone to South
America, and the rain had made its way through the roof of their
empty house, and stained the outer walls. Mr. Chillip was married
again to a tall, raw-boned, high-nosed wife ; and they had a weazen
little baby, vvdth a heavy head that it couldn't hold up, and two
weak staring eyes, with which it seemed to be always wondering
why it had ever been born.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 867
It was with a singular jumble of sadness and pleasure that I used
to linger about my native place, until the reddening winter sun
admonished me that it was time to start on my returning walk.
But, when the place was left behind, and especially when Steerforth
and I were happily seated over our dinner by a blazing fire, it was
delicious to think of having been there. So it was, though in a
softened degree, when I went to my neat room at night ; and, turning
over the leaves of the crocodile-book (which was always there, upon
a little table), remembered with a giateful heart how blest I was in
having such a friend as Steerforth, such a friend as Peggotty, and
such a substitute for what I had lost as ray excellent and generous
aunt.
My nearest way to Yarmouth, in coming back from these long ,
walks, was by a ferry. It landed me on the flat between the town
and the sea, which I could make straight across, and so save myseJl
a considerable circuit by the high road. Mr. Peggotty's house being
on that waste-place, and not a hundred yards out of my track, I
always looked in as I went by. Steerforth was pretty sure to be
there expecting me, and we went on together through the frosty ail
and gathering fog towards the twinkling liglits of the town.
One dark evenino;, when I was later than usual — for I had that
day been making my parting visit to Blunderstone, as we were now
about to return home — I found him alone in Mr. Peggotty's house,
sitting thoughtfully before the fire. He was so intent upon his own
reflections that he was quite unconscious of my approach. This,
indeed, he might easily have been if he had been less absorbed, for
footsteps fell noiselessly on the sandy ground outside ; but eveo
my entrance failed to rouse him. I was standing close to him, look-
ing at him ; and still, with a heavy brow, he was lost in his medita-
tions.
He gave such a start when I put my hand upon his shoulder, that
be made me start too.
" You come upon me," he said, almost angrily, " like a reproach-
ful ghost.'"
" I was obliged to announce myself somehow," I rephed. " Have
I called you down fi"om the stars ?"
" No," he answered. " No."
868 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Up from anywhere, then ?" said I taking ray seat near him.
" I was looking at the pictures in the fire," he returned.
" But you are spoiling them for me," said I, as he stirred it
quickly with a piece of burning wood, striking out of it a train of
red-hot sparks that went careering up the httle chimney, and roaring
out into the air.
" You would not have seen them," he returned. " I detest this
mongrel time, neither day nor night. How late you are ! Where
have you been ?"
" I have been taking leave of my usual walk," said I.
" And I have been sitting here," said Steerforth, glancing round
the room, " thinking that all the people we found so glad on the
night of our coming down, might — to judge from the present
wasted air of the place — be dispersed, or dead, or come to I don't
\now what harm. David, I wish to God I had had a judicious
father these last twenty years !"
" My dear Steerforth, what is the matter ?"
" I wish with all my soul I had been better guided !" he exclaimed.
" I wish with all my soul I could guide myself better !" '
There was a passionate dejection in his manner that quite
amazed me. He was more unhke himself than I could have sup-
posed possible.
" It would be better to be this poor Peggotty, or his lout of a
nephew," he said, getting up and leaning moodily against the
chimney-piece, with his face towards the fire, " than to be myself,
twenty times richer and twenty times wiser, and be the torment to
myself that I have been, in this Devil's bark of a boat, within the
last half hour !"
I was so confounded by the alteration in him, that at first I could
only observe him in silence, as he stood leaning his head upon his
hand, and looking gloomily down at the fire. At length 1 begged
him, with all the earnestness I felt, to tell me what had occurred to
cross him so unusually, and to let me sjTnpathise with him, if I could
not hope to advise him. Before I had well concluded, he began
to laugh — fretfully at first, but soon with returning gaiety.
" Tut, it's nothing, Daisy ! nothing !" he replied. " I told you, at
the inn in London, I am heavy company for myself sometimes. I
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 869
have been a nightmare to myself, just now — must have had one, I
think. At odd dull times, nursery tales come up into the memory,
unrecognised for what they are. I believe I have been confounding
myself with the bad boy who ' didn't care,' and became food for
Hons — a grander kind of going to the dog's, I suppose. What old
women call the hoi-rors, have been creeping over me fi-om head to
foot. I have been afraid of myself."
" You are afraid of nothing else, I think," said I.
" Perhaps not, and yet may have enough to be afraid of too," he
answered. " Well ! So it goes by ! I am not about to be hipped
again, Dand ; but I tell you, my good fellow, once more, that it
would have been well for me (and for more than me) if I had had a
steadfast and judicious father !"
His face was always full of expression, but I never saw it express
such a dark kind of earnestness as when he said these words, with
his glance bent on the fire.
" So much for that !" he said, making as if he tossed something
light into the air with his hand,
« « Why, being gone, I am a man again/
like Macbeth. And now for dinner ! If T have not (Macbeth-like)
hi'oken up the feast with most admired disoi'der, Daisy."
" But where are they all, I wonder !" said I.
" God knows," said Steerforth. " After strolHng lo the ferry look-
ing for you, I strolled in here and found the place deserted. That
set me thinking, and you found me thinking."
The advent of Mrs. Gummidge, with a basket, explained how the
house happened to be empty. She had hurried out to buy something
that was needed, against Mr. Peggotty's return with the tide ; and
had left the door open in the meanwhile, lest Ham and little Eni'l}'^,
with whom it was an early night, should come home while she was
gone. Steerforth, after very much improving Mrs. Gummidge's
spirits by a cheerful salutation, and a jocose embrace, took my arm,
and hurried me away.
He had improved his own spirits, no less than Mrs. Gummidge's,
for they were again at their usual flow, and he was full of vivacioiia
oonversation as we went along.
23
370 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
"And 80," he said, gaily, "we abandou tliis buccaneer life to-mor-
row, do we ?"
" So we agreed," I returned. " And our places by the coach are
taken, you know."
" Ay ! there's no help for it, I suppose," said Steerforth. " I have
almost forgotten that there is anything to do in the world but to go
out tossing on the sea here. I wish there was not."
" As long as the novelty should last," said I, laughing.
" Like enough," he returned ; " though there's a sarcastic mean-
ing in that observation for an amiable piece of innocence like my
young friend. Well ! I dare say I am a capricious fellow, David. I
know I am ; but while the iron is hot, I can strike it vigorously too.
I could pass a reasonably good examination already, as a pilot in
these watei's, I thiuk."
" Mr. Peggotty says you are a wonder," I returned.
" A nautical phenomenon, eh ?" laughed Steerforth.
/' Indeed he does, and you know how truly ; knowing how ardent
you are in any pursuit you follow, and how easily you can master it.
And that amazes me most in you, Steerfoilh — that you should be
contented with such fitful nses of your powers."
" Contented ?" he answered, merrily. " I am never contented,
except with your freshness, my gentle Daisy. As to fitfulness, I
have never learnt the art of binding myself to any of the wheels
on which the Ixions of these days are turning round and round. I
missed it somehow in a bad apprenticeship, and now don't care about
it. You know I have bought a boat down here ?"
" What an extraordinary fellow you are, Steerforth !" I exclaimed,
stopping — for this was the first I had heard of it. " When you may
never care to come near the place again !"
" I don't know that," he returned. " I have taken a fancy to
the place. At all events," walking me briskly on, " I have bought
a boat that was for sale — a clipper, Mr. Peggotty says ; and so she
is — and Mr. Peggotty will be master of her in my absence."
" Now I understand you, Steerforth !" said I, exultingly. " You
pretend to have bought it for yourself, but you have really done so to
confer a benefit on him. I might have known as much at first,
knowing you. My dear kind Steerforth, how can I tell you what I
think of your generosity ?"
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 871
" Tush !" he answered, turning red. " The less said, the better."
*' Didn't I know ?" ciied I, " didn't I say that there was not a joy,
or sorrow, or any emotion of si ch honest hearts that was indifferent
to you ?"
" Aye, aye," he answered, " you told me all that There let it rest.
We have said enough !"
Afraid of offending him by pursuing the subject when he made so
light of it, I only pursued -it in my thoughts as we went on at even
a quicker pace than before.
" She must be newly rigged," said Steerforth, " and I shall leave
Littimer behind to see it done, that I may know she is quite com-
plete. Did I tell you Littimer had come down ?"
"No."
" Oh, yes ! came down this morning, with a letter from my
mother."
As our looks met, I observed that he was pale even to his lips,
though he looked very steadily at me. I feared that some differ-
ence between him and his mother might have led to his being in the
frame of mind in which I had found him at the sohtary fireside. I
hinted so.
" Oh, no !" he said, shaking his head, and giving a slight laugh.
" Nothing of the sort ! Yes. He is come down, that man of mine."
" The same as ever ?" said I.
" The same as ever," said Steerforth. " Distant and quiet as the
North Pole. He shall see to the boat being fresh named. She's
the Stormy Petrel now. What does Mr. Peggotty care for Stormy
Petrels 1 I'll have her christened atjain."
" By what name ?" I asked.
"The Little Em'ly."
As he had continued to look steadily at me, I took it as a reminder
that he objected to being extolled for his consideration. I could not
help showing in my face how much it pleased me, but I said little,
and he resumed his usual smile, and seemed relieved.
" But see here," he said, looking before us,- " where the original
little Em'ly comes ! And that fellow with her, eh ? Upon my
soul, he's a true knight. He never leaves her !"
Ham was a boat-builder in these days, having improved a natural
S72 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
ingenuity in that handici-aft, until he had beci me a skilled work-
man. He was in liis woikino'-drt-ss, and looked ruo-o-ed enouo-h, but
manly withal, and a very fit protector for the blooming little creature
at his side. Indeed, there was a franl<ness in his face, an honesty,
and an undisguised show of his pride in her, and his love fur her,
which were, to me, the best of good looks. I thought, as they came
towards us, that they were well matched ^even in that particular.
She withdrew her hand timidly from his arm as we stopped to
speak to them, and blushed as she gave it to Steerforth and to me.
When they passed on, after we had exchanged a few words, she did
not like to replace that hand, but, still appearing timid and con-
strained, walked by herself. I thought all this very pretty and
engaging, and Steerforth seemed to think so too, as we looked after
them fading away in the light of a young moon.
Suddenly there passed us — evidently, following them — a young
woman whose approach we had not observed, but whose face I saw
as she went by, and thought I had a faint remembrance of. She
was lightly dressed ; looked bold, and haggard, and flaunting, and
poor ; but seemed, for the time, to have given all that to the wind
which was blowing, and to have nothing in her mind but going after
them. As the dark distant level, absorbing their figures into itself,
left but itself visible between us and the sea and clouds, her figure
disappeared in like manner, still no nearer to them than before.
" That is a black shadow to be following the girl," said Steerforth,
standing still ; " what does it mean ?"
He spoke in a low voice that sounded almost strange to me.
" She must have it in her mind to beg of them, I think," said I.
" A beggar would be no novelty," said Steerforth, " but it is a
strange thing that the beggar should take that shape to-night."
"Why?" I asked him.
" For no better reason, truly, than because I was thinking," he
said, after a pause, " of something like it, when it came by. Where
the Devil did it come from, I wonder !"
" From the shadow of this wall, I think," said I, as we emerged
upon a road on which a wall abutted.
" It's gone !" he returned looking over his shoulder. " And all
ill go with it. Now for our dinner !"
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 873
But, he looked again over his shoulder towards the sea-line glim-
mering afar oflF; and yet again. And he wondered about it, in some
broken expressions, several times, in the short remainder of our walk ;
and only seemed to forget it when the light of fire and candle shono
upon us, seated warm and merry, at table.
Littimer was there, and had his usual effect upon me. When I
said to him that I hoped Mrs. Steerforth and Miss Dartle were well,
he answered respectfully (and of course respectably), that they were
tolerably well, he thanked me, and had sent their compliments.
This was all, and yet he seemed to me to say as plainly as a man
could say : " You are very young, sir ; you are exceedingly young."
We had almost finished dinner, when taking a step or two towards
the table, fi'om the corner whore he kept watch upon us, or rathei
upon me, as I felt, he said to his master ;
" I beg your pardon, sir. Miss Mowcher is down here."
'' Who ?" cried Steerforth, much astonished.
" Miss Mowcher, sir."
" Why, what on earth does she do here ?" said Steerforth.
" It appears to be her native part of the country, sir. She informs
me that she makes one of her professional visits here, every year, sir.
T met her in the street this afternoon, and she wished to know if she
mio^ht have the honor of v/aitiniv on vou after dinner, sir."
" Do you know the Giantess in question, Daisy ?" inquired Steer-
forth.
I was obliged to confess — I felt ashamed, ev^n of being at this
disadvantage before Littimer — that Miss Mowcher and I were -wholly
unacquainted.
"Then you shall know her," said Steerforth, "for she is one of the
seven wonders of the world. A\ hen Miss Mowcher comes, show her
in."
I felt some curiosity and excitement about this lady, especially as
Steerforth burst into a fit of laughing when I referred to her, and
positively refused to answer any question of which I made her the
subject. I remained, therefore, in a state of considerable expectation
until the cloth had been removed some lialf an hour, and we were
sitting over our decanter of wine before the fire, when the door
374 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
opened, and Littimer, with his habitual serenity quite undisturbe(\
announced :
" Miss Mowcher !"
I looked at the doorway and saw nothing. I was still looking at
the doorway, thinking that Miss Mowcher was a long while making
her appearance, when, to my infinite astonishment, there came wad-
dling round a sofa which stood between me and it, a pursy dwarf,
of about forty or forty-five, with a very large head and face, a pair
of roguish grey eyes, and such extremely little arms, that, to enable
herself to lay a finger archly against her snub nose, as she ogled
Steerforth, she was obhged to meet the finger half-way, and lay her
nose against it. Her chin, which was what is called a double-chin,
was so fat that it entirely swallowed up the strings of her bonnet,
bow and all. Throat she had none ; waist she had none ; legs she
had none, worth mentioning ; for though she was more than full-
sized down to where her waist would have been, if she had had any,
and though she terminated, as human beings generally do, in a pair
of feet, she was so short that she stood at a common-sized chair as
at a table, resting a bag she carried on the seat. This lady ; dress-
ed in an off-hand, easy style ; bringing her nose and her forefinger
together, with the difficulty I have described ; standing with her
head necessarily on one side, and, with one of her sharp eyes shut
up, making an uncommonly knowing face ; after ogling Steerforth for
a few moments, broke into a torrent of words.
" What ! My flower !" she pleasantly began, shaking her large
head at him. " You 're there, are you ! Oh, you naughty boy, fie
for shame, what do you do so far away from home ? Up to mis-
chief, I '11 be bound. Oh, you 're a downy fellow, Steerforth, so
you are, and I 'm another, ain't I ? Ha, ha, ha ! You 'd have bet-
ted a hundred pound to five, now, that you wouldn't have seen me
here, wouldn't you ? Bless you, man alive, I 'm everywhere. I 'm
here and there, and where not, like the conjuror's half-crown in the
lady's hankercher. Talking of hankerchers — and talking of ladies — •
what a comfort you are to your blessed mother, ain't you, my dear
boy, over one of my shoulders, and I don't say which !"
Miss Mowcher untied her bonnet, at this passage of her discourse,
threw back the strings, and sat down, panting, on a footstool in
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 875
front of the fire — making a kind of arbor of the dining-table, which
spread its mahogany shelter above her head. -
" Oh my stars and what's-their-names !" she went on, clapping a
hand on each of her httle knees, and glancing shrewdly at me, " 1 'm
of too full a habit, that 's the fact, Steerforth. After a flight of stairs,
it gives me as much trouble to di'aw every breath I want, as if it
was a bucket of water. If you saw me looking out of an upper
window, you 'd think I was a fine woman, wouldn't you ?"
" I should think that wherever I saw you," replied Steerforth.
" Go along, you dog, do !" cried the little creature, making a
whisk at him with the handkerchief with which she was wiping her
face, " and don't be impudent ! But I give you my word and honor
I was at Lady Mithers's last week — there's a woman ! How she
wears ! — and Mithers himself came into the room where I was wait-
ing for her — therms a man ! How he wears ! and his wig too, for
he 's had it these ten years — and he went on at that rate in the
complimentary line, that I began to think that I should be obliged
to ring the bell. Ha ! ha ! ha ! He 's a pleasant wi-etch, but he
wants principle."
" What were you doing for Lady Mithers ?" asked Steerforth.
" That's tellings, my blessed infant," she retorted, tapping her
nose again, screwing up her face, and twinkling her eyes hke an imp
of supernatural intelligence. " Never you mind ! You 'd like to
know whether I stop her hair from falling off, or dye it, or touch up
her complexion, or improve her eyebrows, wouldn't you ? And so
you shall, my darling — when I tell you ! Do you know what my
great grandfather's name was ?"
" No," said Steerforth.
" It was Walker, my sweet pet," replied Miss Mowcher, " and he
came of a long hne of Walkei-s, that I inherit all the Hookey estates
from."
I never beheld anything approaching to Miss Mowcher's wink,
except Miss Mowcher's self-})Ossession. She had a wonderful wav
too, when listening to what was said to her, or when waiting for an
answer to what she had said hereelf, of pausing with her head cim-
ningly on one side, and one ^ye turned up like a magpie's. Alto
gether I wjis lost in amazement, and sat staring at her, quite obli-
vious, I am afraid, of the laws of politeness.
876 DAVID COPPERFIELD
She liad by this time drawn the chair to her side, an li was busily
engaged in producing fi*om the bag (plunging in her short arm to
the shoulder at every dive) a number of small bottles, sponges,
combs, brushes, bits of jElannel, little pairs of curhng irons, and other
instruments, which she tumbled in a heap upon the chair. From
this employment she suddenly desisted, and said to Steerforth, much
to my confusion :
" Who 's your friend ?"
" Mr. Copperfield," said Steerforth ; " he wants to know you."
" Well, then, he shall ! I thought he looked as if he did !" re
turned Miss Mowcher, waddling up to me, bag in hand, and laugh-
ing on me as she came. " Face like a peach !" standijig on tiptoe
to pinch my cheek as I sat. " Quite tempting ! I 'm very fond of
peaches. Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Copperfield, I 'm
sure."
I said that I congratulated myself on having the honor to make
hers, and that the happiness was mutual.
" Oh my goodness, how polite we are !" exclaimed Miss Mow-
cher, making a preposterous attempt to cover her large face with
her morsel of a hand. '" What a world of gammon and spinage it
is, though, ain't it !"
This was addressed confidentially to both of us, as the morsel of
a hand came away from the face, and buried itself, arm and all, in
the bag again.
" What do you mean. Miss Mowcher ?" said Steerforth.
" Ha ! ha ! ha ! What a refreshing set of humbugs we are, to be
sure, ain't we, my sweet child ?" replied that morsel of a woman,
feehng in the bag with her head on one side, and her eye in the air.
" Look here !" taking something out. " Scraps of the Russian
Prince's nails ! Prince Alphabet turned topsy-turvy, / call him, for
his name's got all the letters in it, higgledy-piggledy."
" The Russian Prince is a client of yours, is he ?" said Steerforth.
" I believe you, my pet," replied Mi;s Mowcher. " I keep his
nails in order for him. Twice a week ! Fingers and toes !"
" He pays well, I hope ?" said Steerforth.
" Pays as he speaks, my dear child — thi-ough the nose," replied
Miss Mowcher. "None of your close shavers the Prince a' n't*
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 877
You'd say so, if you saw his miLstachios. Red by nature, black by
art."
" By your art, of coui-se," snid Steerforth.
Miss Mowchor winked assent. " Forced to send for me. Couldn't
help it. The climate affected his dye ; it did very well in Russia,
but it was no go here. You never saw such a rusty Prince in all
your born days as he was. Like old iron T'
" Is that why you called him a humbug, just now ?" inquu-ed
Steerforth.
" Oh, you're a broth of a boy, ain't you ?" returned Miss Mow-
cher, shaking her head violently. " I said, what a set of humbugs
we were in general, and I showed you the scraps of the Prince's
nails to prove it. The Prince's nails do more for me, in private
families of the genteel sc»rt, than all my talents put together. I
always carry 'em about. They're the best introduction. If Miss
Mowcher cuts the Prince's nails, she must be all right. I give 'em
away to the young ladies. They put 'em in alVjums, I believe.
Ha ! ha ! ha ! Upon my life, ' the whole social system' (as the men
call it when they make speeches in Parliament) is a system of
Prince's nails 1" said this least of women, trying to fold her short
arms, and nodding her large head.
Steerforth laughed heartily, and I laughed too. Miss Mowcher
continuing all the time to shake her head (which was very much on
one side), and to look into the air with one eye, and to wink with
the other.
" Well, well !" she said, smiting her small knees, and rising, " this
is not business. Come, Steerforth, let's explore the polar regions,
and have it over."
She then selected two or three of the little instruments, and a
httle bottle, and asked (to my surprise) if the table would bear. On
Steerforth's replying in the affirmative, she pushed a chair against it,
and begging the assistance of my hand, mounted up, pretty nimbly,
to the top, as if it were a stage.
" If either of you saw my ankles," she said, when she was safely
elevated, "say so, and I'll go home ar_d destroy myself."
" / did not," said Steerforth.
"/did not," said I.
878 DAVID COPPEU FIELD.
" Well then," cried Miss Mowcher, " I'll consent to live. Now,
ducky, ducky, ducky, come to Mi's. Bond and be killed !"
TMs was an invitation to Steerfortli to place himself under her
hands ; who, accordingly, sat himself down, with his back to the
table, and his laughing face towards me, and submitted his head to
her inspection, evidently for no other purpose than our entertain-
ment. To see Miss Mowcher standing over him, looking at his rich
profusion of brown hair through a large round magnifying glass,
which she took out of her pocket, was a most amazing spectacle.
" You^re a pretty fellow !" said Miss Mowcher, after a brief inspec-
tion. " You'd be as bald as a friar on the top of your head in
twelve months, but for me. Just half-a-minute, my young friend,
and we'll give you a polishing that shall keep your curls on for the
next ten years !"
With this, she tilted some of the contents of the little bottle on to
one of the httle bits of flannel, and, again imparting some of the
virtues of that preparation to one of the httle brushes, began rubbing
and scraping away with both on the crown of Steerforth's head in
the busiest manner I ever witnessed, talking all the time.
" There's Charley Pyegrave, the duke's son," she said. " You
know Charley ?" peeping round into his face.
" A little," said Steerforth.
" What a man he is ! There's a whisker ! As to Charley's leg's,
if they were only a pair (which they ain't), they'd defy competition.
Would you believe he tried to do without me — in the Life-Guards,
too?"
" Mad !" said Steerforth.
" It looks like it. However, mad or sane, he tried," returned
Miss Mowcher. " What does he do, but, lo and behold you, he goes
into a perfumer's shop, and wants to buy a bottle of the Madagascar
Liquid ?"
" Charley does ?" said Steerforth.
" Charley does. But they haven't got any of the Madagascar
Liquid."
" What is it ? Something to drink ?" asked Steerforth.
" To drink ?" returned Miss Mowcher, stopping to slap his cheek.
" To doctor his own moustachios with, you know. There was a
I make the Acquaintance of Miss Mowcber.
I
r
L-iVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
r
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 379
woman in the shop — elderly female — quite a Griffin — who had
never even heard of it by name. ' Begging pardon, sir,' said the
Griffin to Charley, * it's not — not — not rouge, is it ?' ' Rouge,'
said Charley to the Griffin. 'Wliat the unmentionable to ears
polite, do you think I want with rouge?' 'No oftence, sir,' said the
Griffin ; ' we have it asked for by so many names, I thought it
might be.' Now that, my child," continued Miss Mowcher, rubbing
all the time as busily as ever, " is another instance of the refreshing
humbug I was speaking of. / do something in that way myself —
perhaps a good deal — perhaps a little — sharp 's the word, my dear
boy — never mind !"
" In what way do you mean ? In the rouge way ?" said Steer-*
forth.
" Put this and that together, my tender pupil," returned the wary
Mowcher, touching her nose, " work it by the rule of Secrets in all
trades, and the product will give you the desired result. I say / do
a little in that way myself One Dowager, she calls it lip-salve.
Another, she calls it gloves. Another, she calls it tucker-edging.
Another, she calls it a tan. / call it whatever they call it. I supply
it for 'em, but we keep up the trick so, to one another, and make
believe with such a face, that they'd as soon think of laying it on
before a whole drawing-room as before me. And when I wait upon
'em, they'll say to me sometimes — with it on — thick, and no mis-
take— ' How am I looking, Mowcher ? Am I pale V Ha ! ha ! ha !
ha ! Isn't tliat refreshing, my young friend ?"
I never did in my days b<^hold anything like Mowcher as she
stood upon the dining-table, intensely enjoying this refreshment,
rubbing busily at SteerfortH's head, and winking at me over it.
" Ah !" she said. " Such things are not much in demand here-
abouts. That sets me off again ! I haven't seen a pretty woman
since I've been here. Jemmy."
"No?" said Steerforth.
" Not the ghost of one," replied Miss Mowcher.
" We could show her the substance of one, I think ?" said Steer -
forth, addressing his eyes to mine. " Eh, Daisy ?"
" Yes, indeed," said I.
" Aha ?" cri«'d the little creature, glancing sharply ai my face,
and then peeping round at Steerforth's. " Umph 2"
380 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
The first exclamation sounded like a question put to both of UK,
and the second like a question put to Steerforth only. She seemed
to have found no answer to either, but continued to rub, with her
head on one side and her eye turned up, as if she were looking
for an answer in the air, and were confident of its appearing
presently.
" A sister of yours, Mr. Copperfield ?" she cried, after a pause, and
still keeping the same look out. " Aye, aye ?"
" No," said Steerforth, before I could reply. " Nothing of the
soit. On the contrary, Mr. Copperfield used — or I am much mis-
taken— to have a great admiration for her."
" Why, hasn't he now?" returned Miss Mowcher. " Is he
fickle ? oh, for shame ! Did he sip every fiow-er, and change
every hour, until Polly his passion requited ? — Is her name
Polly ?"
The Elfin suddenness with which she pounced upon me w^ith
this question, and a searching look, quite disconcerted me for a
moment.
" No, Miss Mowcher," 1 replied. " Her name is Emily."
" Aha ?" she cried exactly as before. " Umph ? What a rattle
I am ! Ml". Copperfield, ain't I volatile ?"
Her tone and look implied something that was not agreeable to
me in connexion with the subject. So I said, in a graver manner
than any of us had yet assumed :
" She is as virtuous as she is pretty. She is engaged to be mar-
ried to a most worthy and deserving man in her own station of life.
I esteem her for her good sense, as much as I admire her for her
good looks."
" Well said I" cried Steei-forth. " Hear, hear, hear ! Now I '11
quench the curiosity of this little Fatima, my dear Daisy, by leaving
her nothing to guess at. . She is at present apprenticed, Miss Mow-
cher, or articled, or whatever it may be, to Omer and Joram, Haber-
dashers, Milliners, and so forth, in this town. Do you obser\'e ?
Omer and Joram. The promise of which my friend has spoken, \ff^
made and entered into with her cousin ; Christian name. Ham ;
surname, Peggotty ; occupation, boat-builder ; also of this town.
She hves with a relative ; Christian name, \inknown ; surname, Peg-
gotty ; occupation, seafaring ; also of this town. Sht is the prettiest
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 381
and most engaging little fairy in the world. I admire her — as my
friend does — exceedingly. If it were not that I might appear to
disparage her Intended, which I know my friend would not like, I
would add, that to me she seems to be throwing hersc4f away ; that
I am sure she might do better ; and that I swear she was born to
be a lady."
Miss Mowcher listened to these words, which were very slowly
and distinctly spoken, with her head on one side, and her eye in the
air as if she were still looking for that answer. When he ceased,
she became brisk again in an instant, and rattled away with sur-
prising volubility.
" Oh ! And that 's all about it, is it ?" she exclaimed, trimming
his whiskers with a little restless pair of scissors, that went glancing
round his head in all directions. " Very well : very well ! Quite a
long story. Ought to end, ' and they lived happy ever afterwards ;'
oughtn't it ? Ah ! What 's that game at forfeits ? I love my love
with an E, because she 's enticing ; I hate her \vith an E, because
she 's engaged. I took her to the sign of the exquisite, and treated
her with an elopement, her name 's Emily, and she lives in the east ?
Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mr. Copperfield, ain't I volatile ?"
Merely looking at me with extravagant slyness, and not waiting
for any reply, she continued, without drawing breath :
" There ! If ever any scapegrace was trimmed and touched up to
perfection, you are, Steerforth. If I understand any noddle in the
world, I understand yours. Do you hear me when I tell you that,
my darling ? I undersUmd yours," peeping down into his face.
" Now you may mizzle, Jennny (as we say at Court), and if Mr.
Copjierfield will take the chair I '11 operate on him."
" What do you say, Daisy ?" inquired Steerforth, laughing, and
resigning his seat. " Will you be improved ?"
" Thank you, Miss Mowcher, not this evening."
" Don't say no," returned the little woman, looking at me with
the aspect of a connoisseur ; " a little bit more eyebrow ?"
" Thank you," I returned, " some other time."
" Have it carried half a quarter of an inch towards the temple,**
said Miss Mowcher. " We can do it in a fortnijxht."
" No, I thank you. Not at present."
382 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" Go in for a tip," she urged. " No ? Let 's get the scaffolding
up, then, for a pair of whiskers. Come !"
I could not help blushing as I declined, for T felt we were on ray
weak point, now. But Miss Mowcher, finding that I was not at
present disposed for any decoration within the range of her art, and
that I was, for the time being, proof against the blandishments of the
small bottle which she held up before one eye to enforce her
pei'suasions, said we would make a beginning on an early day, and
requested the aid of my hand to descend fi'om her elevated station.
Thus assisted, she skipped doA\Ti with much agility, and began to
tie her double chin into her bonnet.
" The fee," said Steerforth, "is "
" Five bob," repHed Miss Mowcher, " and dirt-cheap, my chicken.
Ain't I volatile, Mr. Copperfield ?"
I replied politely : " Not at all." But I thought she was rather
so, when she tossed up his two half-crowns like a goblin pieman,
caught them, dropped them in her j^ocket, and gave it a
loud slap.
" That 's the Till !" observed Miss Mowcher, standing at the chair
again, and replacing in the bag the miscellaneous collection of little
objects she had emptied out of it. " Have I got all my traps ? It
seems so. It won't do to be like long Ned Beadwood, when they
took him to church ' to marry him to somebody,' as he says, and
left the bride behind. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A wicked rascal, Ned, but
droll ! Now, I know I 'm going to break your hearts, but I am
forced to leave you. You must call up all your fortitude, and try
to bear it. Good bye, Mr. Copperfield ! Take care of yourself,
Jockey of Norfolk ! How I have been rattling on ! It 's all the
fault of you two wretches. / forgive you ! ' Bob swore !' — as the
Englishman said for ' Good night,' when he first learnt French, and
thought it so like English. ' Bob swore,' my ducks !"
With the bag slung over her arm, and rattling as she waddled
away, she waddled to the door ; where she stopped to inquire if she
should leave us a lock of her hair. " Ain't I volatile ?" she added,
as a commentary on this offer, and, with her finger on her nose,
departed.
Steerforth laughed to that degree, that it was impossible for me
DAVID COrPER FIELD. 883
to help laughing too ; thoiigli I am not sure I should have done so,
but for this inducement. When we had had our laugh quite out,
^Yhich was after some time, he told me that Miss Moweher had quite
an extensive connexion, and made herself useful to a variety of
people in a variety of ways. Some peo|ile trifled with her as a mere
oddity, he said ; but she was as shrewdly and sharply observant as
any one he knew, and as long-headed as she was short-armed. Ho
told me that what she had said of being here, and there, and every-
where, was true enough ; for she made little darts into the provinces,
and seemed to pick up customers everywhere, and to know every-
body. I asked him what her disposition was : whether it was at all
mischievous, and if her sympathies were generally on the right side
of things : but, not succeeding in attracting his attention to these
questions after two or three attempts, I forbore or forgot to repeat
them. He told me instead, with much rapidity, a good deal about
her skill, and her profits ; and about her being a scientific cupper, il
I should ever have occasion for her services in that capacity.
-She was the princi|)al theme of our conversation during the even-
ing : and when we parted for the night Steerforth called after me
over the bannistere, " Bob swore !" as I went down stidrs.
I was surprised when I came to Mr. Barkis's house to find Ham
walking up and down in front of it, and still more surprised to learn
from him that httle Em'ly was inside. I naturally inquired why he
was not there too, instead of pacing the street by himself?
" Why, you see, Mas'r Davy," he rejoined, in a hesitating manner,
" Em'ly, she's talking to some 'un in here."
" I should have thought," said I smiling, " that that was a reason
for your being in here too, Ham."
" Well, Mas'r Davy, in a general way, so 't would be," he re-
turned ; " but look'ee here, Mas'r Davy," loweiing his voice, and
speaking very gravely. "It's a young woman, sir — a young
woman that Em'ly knowed once, and doen't ought to know no
more."
"^iMien I heard these words, a fight began to fall upon the figure I
had seen following them, some hours ago.
" It 's a poor wurem, Mas'r Davy," said Ham, " as is trod undei
foot by all the town. Up street and down street. The mowld o
^84 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
the cburch-yard dou't hold any that the folk shrink away from
more."
" Did I see her to-night, Ham, on the sands, after we met you ?"
" Keeping us in sight ?" said Ham. " It 's like you did, Mas'r
Pavy. Not that I know'd, then, she was theer, sir, but along of
lier creeping soon "arterwards under Em'ly's little winder, when she
see the hghl come, and whisp'ring ' Em'ly, Eni'ly, for Christ's sake
have a woman's heart towards me. I was once like you !' Those
was solemn words, Mas'r Davy, for to hear !"
" They were indeed, Ham. What did Em'ly do ?"
" Says Em'ly, ' Martha, is it you ? Oh, Martha, can it be you !*
— ^for they had sat at work together, many a day, at Mr. Omer's."
'" I recollect her now !" cried I, recalling one of the two girls 1
had seen when I first went there. " I recollect her quite well !"
"Martha Endell," said Ham. "Two or three year older than
Em'ly, but was at the school with her."
" I never heard her name," said I. " I didn't mean to interrupt
you."
" For the matter o' that, Mas'r Davy," replied Ham, " all 's told
a'most in them words, ' Em'ly, Em'ly, for Christ's sake have a
woman's heart towards me. I was once like you !' She wanted to
speak to Em'ly. Em'ly couldn't speak to her theer, for her loving
uncle was come home, and he wouldn't — no, Mas'r Davy," said
Ham, with great earnestness, " he couldn't, kind-naturd, tender-
hearted as he is, see them two together, side by side, for all the
treasures that's wrecked in the sea."
I felt how true this was. I knew it on the instant, quite as well
as Ham.
" So Em'ly writes in pencil on a bit of paper," he pursued, " and
gives it to her out o' winder to bring here. ' Show that,' she says,
' to my aunt, Mrs. Barkis, and she '11 set you down by her fire, for
the love of me, till uncle is gone out, and I can come.' By-and-by
she tells me what I tells you, Mas'r Davy, and asks me to bring her.
What can I do ? She doen't ought to know any such, but I can't
deny her, when the tears is on her face."
He put his hand into the breast of his shaggy jacket, and took
out with great care a pretty little purse.
DAVID ( 0 P r E R F I E L D . 385
" And if I could deny her when tlie tears was on her face, Mas'r
Davy," said Ham, tenderly adjusting it on the rough palm of his
hand, " how could I deny her when she give me this to carry for
her — knowing what she brought it for ? Such a toy as it is !" said
ITam, thoughtfully looking on it. " With such a httle money in it,
Era'ly my dear !"
I shook him warmly by the hand when he had put it away again
■ — for that was more satisfactory to me than saying anything — and
we walked up and down for a minute or two, in silence. The door
opened then, and Peggotty appeared, beckoning to Ham to come in.
I would have kept away, but she came after me, entreating me to
come in too. Even then, I would have avoided the room where
tliey all were, but for its being the neat-tiled kitchen I have men-
tioned more than once. The door opening immediately into it, I
found myself among them, before I considered whither I was going.
The girl — the same I had seen upon the sands — was near the fire.
She was sitting on the ground, with her head and one arm lying
on a chair. I fancied, from the disposition of her figure, that Em'ly
had but newly risen from the chair, and that the forlorn head might
l^erhaps have been lying on her lap. I saw but little of the girl's
face, over which her hair fell loose and scattered, as if she had been
disordering it with her own hands ; but I saw that she was young,
and of a fair complexion. Peggotty had been crying. So had
little Em'ly. Not a word was spoken when we first went in ; and
the Dutch clock by the dresser seemed, in the silence, to tick twice
as loud as usual.
Em'ly spoke first.
" Martha wants," she said to Ham, " to go to London."
" Why to London ?" returned Ham.
He stood between them, looking on the prostrate girl with a
mixture of compassion for her, and of jealousy of her holding any
companionship with her whom he loved so well, which I have
always remembered distinctly. They both spoke as if she were ill ;
in a soft, suppressed tone that was plainly heard, although it hardly
rose above a whisper.
" Better there than here," said a third voice aloud — Martha's,
though she did not move. " No one knows me there. Everybody
knows me here."
24
DAVID COPPERFIELD.
" What will she do there ?" inquired Ham.
She lifted up her head, and looked darkly roand at him for a
moment ; then laid it down again, and curved her right arm about
her neck, as a woman in a fever, or in an agony of pain from a shot,
might twist herself. ^
" She will try to do well," said httle Em'ly. " You don't know
what she has said to us. Does he — do they — aunt ?"
Peggotty shook her head compassionately.
"I'll try," said Martha, " if you'll help me away. I never can do
worse than I have done here. I may do better. Oh !" with a
dreadful shiver, " take me out of these streets, where the whole town
knows me from a child !"
As Em'ly held out her hand to Ham, I saw him put in it a little
canvas bag. She took it, as if she thought it were her purse, and
made a step or two forward ; but finding her mistake, came back to
where he had retired near me, and showed it to him.
" It's all yourn, Em'ly," I could hear him say. " I haven't nowt
in all the wureld that ain't yourn, my dear. It ain't of no delighl
to me, except for you !"
The tears rose freshly in her eyes, but she turned away, and went
to Martha. What she gave her, I don't know. I saw her stooping
over her, and putting money in her bosom. She whispered some-
thing, and asked was that enough ? " More than enough," the other
said, and took her hand and kissed it.
Then ]\Iartha arose, and gathering her shawl about her, covering
her face with it, and weeping aloud, went slowly to the door. She
stopped a moment before going out, as if she would have uttered
something or turned back ; but no word p:issed her hps. Making
the same low, dreary, wretched moaning in her shawl, she went
away.
As the door closed, little Em'ly looked at us three in a hurried
manner, and then hid her face in her hands, and fell to sobbing.
" Doen't, Em'ly !" said Ham, tapping her gently on the shoulder.
" J,'>oen't, my dear ! You doen't ought to cry so, pretty !"
" Oh, Ham I" she exclaimed, still weeping pitifully, " I am not as
good a girl as I ought to be ! I know I have not the thankful heart,
Bometimes, I ouo-ht to have !"
** Yes, yes, you have, I 'm sure," said Ham:
Martha.
Y
■- -■ r
t;uvEas\TY or ilu^ -is
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 387
" No ! no ! no !" cried little Em'ly, sobbing, and shaking her head.
** I am not as good a girl as I ought to be. Not near ! not near 1"
and still she cried, as if her heart would break.
" I try your love too much I know I do !" she sobbed. " I 'm
often cross to you, and changeable with you, when I ought to be far
different. You are never so to me. Why am I ever so to you,
when I should thmk of nothing but how to be grateful, and to make
you happy !"
" You always make me so," said Ham, " my dear ! I am happy
in the sight of you. I am happy all day long, in the thoughts of
you."
" Ah ! that's not enough !" she cried. " That is because you are
good ; not because I am ! Oh, my dea?*, it might have been a better
fortune for you, if you had been fond of some one else — of some one
steadier and much worthier than me, who was all bound up in you,
and never vain and changeable hke me !"
" Poor httle tender-heart," said Ham, in a low voice. " Martha
has overset her, altogether."
" Please, aunt," sobbed Em'ly, " come here, and let me lay my
head upon you. Oh, I am very miserable to-night, aunt ! Oh, I
am not as good a girl as I ought to be. I am not, I know !"
Peggotty had hastened to the chair before the fire. Em'ly, with
her arms around her neck, kneeled by her, looking up most earnestly
into her face.
" Oh, pray, aunt, try to help me ! Ham, dear, try to help me !
Mr. David, for the sake of old times, do, please, try to help me ! I
want to be a better girl than I am. I want to feel a hundred times
more thankful than I do. I want to feel more, what a blessed thing
it is to be the wife of a good man, and w lead a peaceful life. Oh
me, oh me ! Oh, my heart, my heart !"
She dropped her face on my old nurse's breast, and, ceasing this
jupplication, which in its agony and grief was half a woman's, half
a child's, as all her manner was (being, in that, more natural, and
better suited to her beauty, as I thouglit, than any other manner
could have been), wept silently, while my old nurse hushed her hke
an infant.
She got calmer by degrees, and then we soothed her ; now talk-
888 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
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